


Angel Eyes

by BATC4TS



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Crown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Princess!Sansa, Sansa Stark-centric, harry is group cpt. townsend, he is the queen elizabeth so, jon is tony armstrong obvs, jon’s mom is not a stark, king!robb, robb is lowkey the villain in this sorry not sorry, sansa is princess margaret, the crown insp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23694361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BATC4TS/pseuds/BATC4TS
Summary: “Because you haven't the faintest idea who you are.”Sansa fumes, “I know perfectly well—”“No,” Jon’s eyes bore into hers. “Not a clue.”
Relationships: Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark (mentioned), Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 53
Kudos: 179





	1. My love is misspent

**Author's Note:**

> the title is in reference to the song “angel eyes” by ella fitzgerald. so basically this mess is what happens when u rewatch the crown & fall prey to british monarchy propaganda sfhgjfhf. anyways. the starks are the royal family of england, they live in winterfell castle, brandon abdicated to marry barbrey ryswell, ned became king but passed on years later from illness, robb took over. 
> 
> sansa has just been denied permission to marry group capt. hardyng, a divorced man, ned&robb’s former equerry. ok. onward.

**OCTOBER 1995**

  
  
  
  
  


_“I cannot allow you to marry Harry and remain part of this family_ ,” Robb declares. 

Princess Sansa hears those words echo in the room that once belonged to her father. When he was king, when he was _alive._ The room that belonged to her grandfather Rickard and every other monarch of England. It belonged to her uncle Brandon, briefly, but not even for a year. She could never call it her uncles. She never realized how grand it was until those words ricochet off the walls, those imposing walls with the meticulous hand-painted portraits of her ancestors. Royals before them. They all look stoic. Solemn. Unhappy, almost.

“ _There’s never been a happy royal_ ,” Sansa once heard her uncle Brandon say around her when she was just a girl, right before he abdicated to marry that common American woman, Barbrey Ryswell. 

This room never seemed so suffocating, not the way it did in the moment. It’s Robb’s official room now, he’s the king, it’s been his for three years. But all Sansa can see is the room she used to run around in..the room that would echo her childlike laughter and Robb’s playful taunts. It was the neutral ground King Eddard would bring all his children to, especially Robb and Sansa, his oldest; three years can’t undo the solidity in her mind that this is her father's room. 

“ _You are family. Siblings, flesh and blood,”_ Eddard told Robb and her once, a few nights after this room first became her father’s. He looked so solemn when he held their hands and kneeled down to their height, his timbre unwavering. “ _You must never let one another down_.” 

Sansa had immediately agreed, “ _Never_.” 

Robb took a moment but repeated, “ _Never_.” 

She only needs to close her eyes to remember that time. Her father's face…she wondered if Eddard was ever surprised about the largeness of this room. If it ever felt suffocating, too. Or if he only ever felt comfort. She’d give anything to ask him, to have him here now. 

Again, memories of Bran’s laughter as their father tickled him and Arya’s battle cry as she tackled Robb to the floor just steps from where Sansa sits now swirl in her mind...this room used to hold a comfort for her. 

Now, this grand, royal room, echoes nothing but the ruination of her happiness. She can’t even bear to sit in here, not even a second more. 

Robb continues. “That is my decision.” 

Sansa’s eyes flood with tears as she glances up to him.

He doesn’t sit as he tells her those words. Her kingly brother stands, looking down on her, like everyone else seems to lately. He stands tall and _honorable_ all whilst uttering a single sentence that somehow has the power to crush and stab and pierce every inch of her heart all at once. The way Robb looks at her is an awful imitation of how their father used to look at uncomfortable situations. Sansa hates him more for that. He doesn’t get to mimic their father in the moment he’s taking away all her happiness. 

“You . . . in this room? In defiance of the pledge you made to father?” Sansa’s voice trembles. She glares at him, she tries to hurt him with the disappointment she knows Eddard would have for him. “And the pledge you gave to me?” 

Robb doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

Sansa chokes out a sob. 

She’s never wanted anything more than Harry. 

She’s a princess, the eldest royal princess. _The_ princess. Her father always said that when Sansa asked for something. _You’re the princess,_ he’d say, kissing her cheek. That used to be the only justification once upon a time. In the fairytale where her father lived forever, where he could always be there to kiss her cheek. 

Sansa feels Robb sink in the seat beside her. 

“Sansa,” Her brother calls out, like he’s speaking to a spooked animal. “Can you forgive me for that? For breaking my pledge.” 

She turns to him. Her tears run a trail through the heavy foundation she applied to make herself presentable enough today. She thought there’d be interviews to do, cameras to smile in front of, with Harry by her side as she called him her fiancée.

Sansa’s bottom lip shakes. “Can you even forgive yourself?” 

Robb sits straight. His jaw twitches. “That’s my own burden.” He says with a sigh. “I’m asking if you can forgive me, Sansa.” 

Sansa doesn’t think she can. 

No, she _knows_ she can’t. 

“For denying me the man I love?”

“For putting duty over family.” 

Sansa lets out a bitter laugh. “It’s funny,” She chokes out, shaking her head. “You were always better at me with Maester Luwin in our studies. Yet...you can’t even get mother’s family words right.”

Robb says nothing. He looks away from her. 

“It’s family, duty, _then_ honor,” Sansa tells him, her voice growing in volume. “Family before your fucking duty.” 

“I am not King of the House Tully, Sansa,” Robb says with a steady voice. He stands up, rubbing his face before he states, “We are the House of Stark.”

“Exactly,” Sansa cries. “You’re my _brother_.” 

“I’m not _just_ your brother, Sansa. Not anymore.” 

“Father was always our father,” She threw back. “He was never _King Eddard_ to us—”

“I am _not_ Father!” Robb cuts off. “Father is gone.”

Sansa cries again. Her tears fall more freely now. If anyone knows that it’s her. It’s Arya, who was closer to Eddard than anyone else in the world. It’s sweet Bran and young Rickon. It’s their mother who’s cried nearly every year on the death anniversary for the past three years Sansa’s father has been gone. She wonders if Robb has to keep saying that to believe it himself.

“Even worse,” Sansa rasps. “You disappoint our _dead_ father by breaking the pledge you made to him.” 

Robb turns away from her. 

“Would forgive anyone who would’ve denied you Jeyne?” 

Her brother sighs, his back still turned. “It doesn’t compare, Sansa.” 

“It compares exactly.” 

Jeyne Westerling common in all but name. Penniless until Robb fell in love with her the moment he met her whilst helping their troops during the second world war. Jeyne’s mother is of foreign means, with frivolous titles that don’t count where they live. Her brothers had been married to Valyrian women, women whose family were key supporters of that genocidal Targaryen that started the second world war...everyone seemed to overlook _that_ for some inane reason. 

“Jeyne was never married,” Robb turns, reminding her with a brusque tone. “She didn’t have a former spouse who still lives. In marrying Jeyne I wasn’t offending the High Septon or defying the Old Gods and the New.” 

Sansa looks away from him this time. 

Offending the High Septon or defying the Old Gods and the New wasn’t Sansa’s intention. She is a woman of her faith, like her mother. She visited the Sept more than anyone in her family. She _believes_. She doesn’t want to upset anyone. Why can’t they see that? 

She just wants Harry. 

“I’m so sorry.” Robb says for the first time. 

Sansa isn’t sure he is. 

He’s gotten everything. Always. More than her. Of course he did. He was the heir, _the_ prince, the gilded boy from the moment he came into this world. Robb has been preordained for happiness and glory. He’s got a crown, a country, and the complete adoration from a wife who he loves. Robb’s got three _beautiful_ children, a princess and two princes, he’s given them names Sansa might’ve reused with the babies she could’ve given Harry…

And Sansa? 

Born to be second fiddle. Cursed for being born second, doomed to a life where she has so little control. Brought up to be the wings beside and now behind Robb. Sansa has no real duties except for the ones that duty calls for. The ones where she was dragged out in front of a camera and tapped on top with a tiara that didn’t quite sparkle as much as her eyes. She had no purpose. She had accepted it, she _would have_ accepted it. 

All she wanted was Harry. 

“You’ll love others,” Robb assures. 

“No,” Sansa whispers brokenly. “Never.” 

Even those words, as inaudible as she made them out to be, echoed in the room. Sansa shut her eyes. _You’ll love others…._ she couldn’t rule it out. Sansa was fanciful. _You’ll love others..._ but who would love her? Who _could?_ Who could understand why she drinks into a stupor every February 6th? Harry did. He shared that pain, he loved her father, too. Who would put out her cigarettes before she could burn her room down if not Harry? _You’ll love others…_ Sansa hates him for saying that. 

Even if he doesn’t know how wrong he is. He doesn’t know her, now, as the twenty some year old she is. He knew her when they were children, when their laughter echoed in this room. He couldn’t know, Robb wasn’t brought up to sympathize with and recognize people's faults; he was brought up to rule a country. Nothing else matters. 

Robb doesn’t know the woman his sister grew up to be is hard to love. 

“Harry is the only one.” 

“Sansa,” Robb goes to sit by her, his face less stoic than before, finally looking human. “I understand it feels that way _now_ but—”

“I know I _appear_ strong,” Sansa cuts off, her voice shaky from crying. “I try to be. I really do, Robb. Ever since the prime minister's dreadful daughter called me _Little Bird_ I tried my very best not to be but...I _am_ .” She takes a breath. “Harry is the only one who can calm me, reassure me, _protect me..._ don’t tell me you know what that’s like, you don’t know what it is to be—” She cuts herself off, looking Robb in the eye. “ _Unhinged_.”

Her brother looks genuinely troubled. 

“Harry is the only one who can hold me together.”

Without him, Sansa feels like she’ll be flailing about, falling, falling, falling until there’s nothing left of her to drop. A bird without feathers, the little, flightless bird Cersei Lannister called her...

“I took you at your word,” Sansa sobs. “Believed _everything_ you said...you broke your promise to me, failed to protect me as father asked…” She can’t believe he’d do that. 

“I am protecting you, Sansa. From a life of exile, away from us, from the ruination of your image,” He justifies. “As your brother, I’d move the Narrow Sea to see you be happy and wed but—”

Sansa knows what he’s going to say next. 

“But it isn’t _my brother_ who’s made the decision to rob me of my happiness,” Sansa guesses. “It’s my King. It’s the Crown.” 

Robb’s face says it all. 

Sansa can’t stand being in this room a moment longer. It hurts. Everything hurts too much. She isn’t a girl anymore, she can’t run to her father and cry in his arms and he can’t make the pain go away. This pain won’t ever go away. 

But before she can even go, there’s someone who walks in, it’s Robb’s private secretary, Jon Arryn; the sight of him makes Sansa’s heart sink even more. 

“Sir, princess, please forgive me for the intrusion,” Jon Arryn rushes out, bowing. “You’re needed elsewhere.” 

Robb nods once. “Thank you, Jon. I’ll be there shortly.” 

Lord Arryn inclines his head, stepping out. 

Sansa still can’t look at him. 

Robb reaches to hold her hand. She yanks away. 

He sighs softly, getting up and making his way to escape this grandiose room. Before he can even reach for the door handle, Sansa speaks up. 

“Robb.” 

He looks over at her. 

“I know they’ve tied your hands, I know there’s nothing you can do,” She says slowly, sorrowfully, as she looks him in the eye. “But I will never forgive you for being weak enough for them to do so. You failed to protect me…now I shall fail to protect you.” 

Not even the look of anguish on her brother's face can satisfy her. 

  
  


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Sansa waits in Harry’s office. 

She looks out the window, leaning her head against the cool glass, glaring at the sunshine. It’s not supposed to be sunny. There should be rainfall and thunder and crackles of lightning burning trees to the ground. But there’s none of that and the only thing that seems to burn and break is Sansa. 

“ _Sansa_.” 

She turns at the sound of Harry’s voice. 

He stands by the doorway, face hopeful. His handsome face is another stab at her tender heart and his eyes shine the way they did the night he proposed to her. _You will love others..._ But what other could be more handsome and more unreal that Harry? He walks further in, the hope still there. 

But it all flows away the moment she shakes her head and her tears return. She feels him rush over to her, the gravity of the situation crushing both of them, and he holds her up like he did the day her father died. 

“I will never forgive him,” Sansa chokes out in between her sobs. Harry shushes her, kissing her temple as she cries more. “Never, ever, I won’t.” 

“You must, you must,” Harry’s voice wavers. “You will. He loves you. He’s your brother.” 

Sansa shakes her head, “He's the _king_.” 

Harry brings her into his arms again. 

“I will never marry anyone else, Harry,” She tells him as she buries her face in his neck. “You are the only one. There can be no one else…” 

Harry’s arms tighten around her. “There will be no one else for me either,” He assures her. “I will love you and only you forever, my love, I promise.” 

Sansa can’t believe another promise again. 

But it’s Harry, her Harry, she has to. All she knows is that she cannot love another like she loves him. There’s not enough time for someone else to learn to love her, not like Harry does. Sansa refuses to settle for anything less than what Harry loves her with. She melts into his arms and lets him hold her, for what will be the last time in her life. 

  
  


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**BREAKING NEWS!**

**PRINCESS SANSA GIVES STATEMENT REGARDING RELATIONSHIP WITH GROUP CPT. HARDYNG….**

“ _I would like it to be known that I have decided not to marry Group Captain Harrold Hardyng. I have been aware that, subject to my renouncing my rights of succession, it might have been possible for me to contract a civil marriage. But mindful of the Faith’s teachings that marriage is indissoluble, and conscious of my duty to the Commonwealth, I have resolved to put these considerations before others. I have reached this decision entirely alone, and in doing so I have been strengthened by the unfailing support and devotion of Group Captain Hardyng_...”

  
  
  
  


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**ONE YEAR LATER.**

  
  
  
  
  


The maids knock gently before they stomp into Sansa’s room. 

The heavy stench of Princess Sansa’s frequent chain smoking is apparent to both maids. It’s something they’ve become all too familiar with. They step on cigarette buds as they make their way further into the large bedroom. One of them yanks apart the heavy curtains to flood the dark room with the midmorning sunlight and wake up the (obviously hungover) princess. Sansa lets out a sharp hiss of annoyance, turning away from the window and buries her face further into her silk sheets; she wonders if she told them _not_ to disturb her or not last night . . . Sansa just wants to sleep.

The other maid is shifting through her closet to find her outfit of the day. She sits up, probably too fast, because her head spins. There’s aspirin on her bedside in an instant. Sansa glances up to see the worried face of her private secretary, Beth Cassel. 

Sansa gives her a nod, “Morning?” 

Beth smiles. “It’s nearly noon, your highness.” 

“It is?” Sansa asks, looking around and narrowing her eyes at the maids who are fixing up her vanity. “Did I not ask to be left alone today? I swore I had . . .”

“Yes. You did, ma’am,” Beth looks down. 

“Then why am I being awoken, Beth?” 

A small sigh comes from Beth’s thin lips. She seemingly winces at the words that have yet to leave her mouth but tells her, “The King would like you to have lunch with him today.” 

The mention of Sansa’s older brother has her jaw clenching. It’s been that way for a while now, maybe her whole life, but for a year it’s had much more purpose than it used to. _Has it been a year already?_ There’s a familiar burn in her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry this early—no, maybe it isn’t _early,_ but even if it is noon, noon isn’t for crying. Sansa has come to save that for nightfall. 

“I don’t want to have lunch in Winterfell Palace,” She says tiredly, pained. “I can have lunch here. Tell my brother . . . tell him anything—” 

“I did, your highness,” Beth folds her hands in front of her nervously, briefly meeting Sansa’s icy glare. “I knew you would be too exhausted.”

“So then?”

“I’m afraid he insists, Princess.” 

Sansa feels a flash of anger. “You mean he’s summoned me.”

“Yes,” Beth says, sighing. “His majesty did.” 

“Right. Just say that then,” Sansa stands, pulling her silk robe on, going to her vanity. She lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag, glancing over her shoulder at Beth and giving her a weak grin. “It gives me more of a reason to take my sweet time. If he’s summoned me then it means he wants a princess’s company...” 

“The car will wait for you.” Beth inclines her head respectfully. 

“Of course it will…” 

Sansa looks in the mirror. 

The reflection Sansa sees looking back at her causes her to take a sharp intake of breath. Her auburn mane is askew, flattened from any curls she favors having her hair styled in. She forgot to take off her makeup before she went to bed. It’s why mascara gathered in the bags under her eyes, eyes that once used to look so much bluer before, didn’t they? Jewel blue. Like the diamonds in her favorite crown. People always complimented her eyes. It was even in the paper once, ‘Princess Sansa has the best eyes of any woman in England.’ 

_Harry loved my eyes. . ._

Now they’re just icy. Cold. Unforgiving. She doesn’t get compliments on them lately. If she does, they’ve fallen to uncaring ears. There hasn’t been a frivolous newsletter writing sonnets about her eyes. Sansa thinks she has quite a lot to be icy and unforgiving about; she has twelve months of loneliness to throw in the face of anyone who would dare say otherwise. 

It’s so terribly easy to be cold when you’re lonely. 

  
  
  
  
  


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There’s no one for lunch except a King and a princess.

Sansa tosses her purse on the table. She waves away the attendants who offer to put a napkin on her lap and crosses her legs, taking a deep breath. She feels like absolute rubbish. This is the last place she wishes to be barreling through a hangover. 

The assortment of food spread out on the table and their various aromas do nothing for the nausea that was rewarded to Sansa for last night's fun. 

Her brother is as kingly as ever. He sits stiff and straight, his face is solemn as Sansa remembers their father was. But Robb, no matter how much he tries, no matter the crown he ceremoniously adorns, is _not_ King Eddard I. 

Eddard never made Sansa feel cold. 

She’s surprised Robb’s found himself free for a moment, even if it is for something as menial as lunch; those dreaded mustaches that titter around him all day never seem to leave his side. He looks healthy as ever, though his red hair is seemingly darker than hers when she remembers it used to be identical. Sansa knows it’s age—none of them are as young as they used to be. 

“Are you not hungry?” asks Robb. 

Sansa looks down at her plate of half eaten lemoncakes. 

“Not much,” She drawls, slightly slurred. 

Robb frowns. “You know, I called Torrhen House last night to reach you in hopes of breaking our fast together but your secretary said you were still out,” He tells her. “It was almost past midnight. Where were you so late?” 

“Here and there.” Sansa shifts through her purse. She finds a cigarette and lights it. “And no, you wouldn’t have been able to reach me. I didn’t get in until four...or was it five? Who knows...” 

“Five AM?” Robb echoes. 

“Well, I am here for lunch, so it can’t be PM.” 

“What were you doing at all hours of the morning?” 

Sansa takes a drag of her cigarette. “Oh, you know. I started the night at Winters Town. There’s this chef from Dorne who opened a restaurant there, Ned Dayne knew him; interesting flavors, the food not the chef. I would go again,” She tells him, reaching for her drink, swirling it. “Then we went for some music at _Satin’s_ and by then I had too many Arbor Gold to remember what happened next…”

“Who is ‘ _we_?” Robb inquires. 

“Just Theon, Gendry, Ned Dayne, Arianne, Wynafed, and Jeyne—” Sansa stops herself and elaborates at Robb’s raised brow. “Jeyne Poole, my lady in waiting, of course. Gods know our queen doesn’t fancy a good time.”

Robb gives her a look. “Jeyne enjoys a good time.” 

Of course Queen Jeyne Stark would. There isn’t a thing she can’t do. Robb’s wife is _perfect._ Elegant and just pretty enough to not be straight up _plain_. The most perfect thing about her though was that Jeyne knew how to put on a smile. She got in perfectly with this macabre of a family because she knew how to do what they all were born to. 

“Does she?” Sansa hums, nodding. “I must meet this livelier wife of yours, brother. The one I’m thinking of is terribly dull.” 

Her brother drops his fork. Sansa grins, taking another drag of her cigarette. He looks up at her, pinning her with eyes almost as icy as hers. Though not quite. Hers are the ice of heartbreak whereas her brothers are the ice of burden. She’s baiting him. Her brother knows her too well. And he doesn’t take it. 

“Sansa,” Robb says slowly, voice low. “Is it possible you’re still drunk?” 

Sansa gasps dramatically. “You know what,” She blinks before she drinks her water. “I think I might be. Slightly.”

“You should be more careful.” 

“In my defense, you woke me far too early,” Sansa says, narrowing her eyes. “I haven't had a chance to sleep off last night's drinks in preparation for tonight.” 

“Tonight?”

“Yes, yes,” Sansa murmurs, lighting another cigarette in hand. “Tonight I shall be _most_ careful.”

“You need to be,” Robb reiterates. “Most especially with the company you keep.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Naturally.” 

“You’re drinking far more than you used to.” 

That was it. 

She was willing to come all this way and listen to Robb offer whatever white flag their mother probably commanded him to but she won’t however, sit here and listen to her brother drone about her friends and the lifestyle she’s kept for the past five months. The only thing that’s making anything worth living. 

“Yes, why do you think that is?” Sansa asks rhetorically, tapping her cigarette on the fine china to rid the ashes. “Because I am _unhappier_ than I used to be. And why is that? Because I am still unmarried and _why is that?”_ Sansa pauses to drink. “Right, because you denied me my perfect match...” 

Robb frowns. 

“That’s not fair.”

“No, you’re right it's not,” Sansa concedes. “I’m being far too lenient in my expression.” 

“Yes,” Robb scoffs this time. “You’ve held back _graciously_ in the past year.” 

Sansa smiles humorlessly. 

“I am anything if not graceful. Don’t you read the papers?” She asks. “It’s all there in black and white.” 

Robb sighs, looking at her, “Weren’t you the one who once said we shouldn’t believe anything from the papers?”

“You should only believe it if I say you can.” 

“And your behavior in the past year,” Robb pauses. “Is that your definition of grace?”

“Grace is subjective. I’m a princess, every inch of my being is _dripping_ in grace,” Sansa smirks lazily. 

“Staying out late, drinking all the Arbor Gold in the country?” Robb counters. “Is that all your grace has to offer?” 

“Maybe so.” Sansa’s gaze hardens, “I drink because it makes me happy,” She waves her hand around softly, lazily. “When I’m not happy, I find myself quite angry…no one wants to see me angry.”

“We haven’t?” 

Sansa laughs, a hollow and bitter sound. 

“No, you haven't,” She confirms. 

Robb seems to choose his words carefully. 

“Sansa, I liked Harry. He was always good to father and he was good to me,” Robb states firmly, matter of factly. “I know he would’ve been good to you, there’s no doubt in my mind. I was fully ready to support the marriage.”

Sansa keeps her teary gaze ahead. Away from him. 

“It was the _Crown_ that forbade it.”

Sansa takes a drag of her cigarette. 

“Not to mention, he was slightly old for you,” Robb goes on, tilting his head as he cuts into his breakfast, sighing more. “And not exactly from the right—”

“No,” Sansa snaps. “Don’t you dare say ‘ _background’.”_

“I think it might’ve come back to haunt you, Sans.”

Sansa glares, shaking her head, “Did Jeyne’s Nazi Valyrian brothers come back to haunt her?” She counters with a scoff. “Or her lunatic, social climbing mother?” 

Robb leans back in his chair, eyes hard, not on her. 

Sansa says nothing. Her cigarette smoke billows. 

Her brother surprises her by taking out a cigarette of his own; an attendant comes by with a lighter for him. The drag he takes is purposeful. She’s surprised because their father was taken from them by smoking nearly forty a day; it gave him a malignant tumor that turned out to be cancer. Robb never picked up a cigarette since they buried their father. But the way he inhales each time tells her it’s a habit that will surely give people more people a reason to call Robb I another King Eddard. 

Sansa looks down at her own. She puts it out. 

“When is Arya coming home?” She asks conversationally. “Mummy said something about her winnings at the show this past week.” 

Their sister is the most gifted equestrian in the country, and has been since she was a girl. Arya takes more to horse racing and eventing, but now that she’s nearly undefeated, it’s enabled her to travel more often than usual to meet more experienced challengers. 

Thinking of it, Sansa’s only seen Arya about three times in the last year. She misses her little sister terribly, no matter how brusque she can be at times. 

“Next month,” Robb seems happy to switch subjects.

Sansa feels excited for the first time in a while. 

“Mother says Bran taking a break from the Naval training as well,” He goes on. “Jeyne is pleased. She wanted the whole family together anyway this summer.” 

“The whole family? Whatever for?”

Sansa could do without the headache of her entire family together in one place. It was sad how they all scattered out, but necessary. Too much Stark/Tully ego and honor in one room for long periods of time was detrimental to one's mental health. 

“It’s Jeyne and mine's tenth wedding anniversary in a few moons.” 

Sansa involuntarily stiffens. 

Sansa can’t even imagine someone loving her for ten years. She figured Harry would, but there was always that small doubt in the back of her mind, a voice betraying every certainty she held dearly, “ _Everyone who loves you, truly loves you, leaves you…”_

Ten years. Her brother has gotten to be a husband for ten whole years. A decade married to someone he loves, a woman he got to choose, a woman who chose to love him just as much...he's much more like their father than Sansa cared to admit. 

“Oh. Congratulations.” Sansa manages to rasp out. She doesn’t feel the least bit hungry and she doesn’t wish to exchange false courtesies any longer. She stands up too quickly because her head spins, “You know, I’m still very tired...”

Robb doesn’t believe her for a second. He doesn’t say otherwise but his eyes tell her as much. Her brother looks like he wishes to say more, to beseech her to stay a while longer. He doesn’t. Nevertheless, he offers that solemn expression he’s mimicked from their fathers portraits perfectly, and nods to the attendant standing off to the side to open the door for her to leave. 

Sansa gives Robb a quick curtsy. 

Only when she’s back in the car on her way to her apartments in Torrhen House does she feel like she can breathe again. Only then. 

  
  


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The Queen Mother and Sansa sit in the guest of honor pew, right smack in front of all those in attendance for the wedding of Lady Allyria Dayne and Count Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Her mother tricked her into coming. Sansa had been neglecting her duties, so Catelyn says. She’ll admit there has been a decline in her social appearances. She doesn’t want the papers to start flying around with rumors about Sansa wasting away, no matter how true. It’s spending time with her mother alone, without anyone to buffer, that really has Sansa on edge. It was bad enough that the whole train ide here Catelyn droned on about some sons of parliament members who were single and more than willing to woo the sad, unwed princess. 

Sansa tries to make her smiles towards people at the wedding genuine. It isn’t so hard. She thinks the whole occasion is darling; from the purple bellflowers that are scattered in Allyria’s bouquet to the long sleeve wedding gown that has stars sewn in the bodice, it’s a dream that Sansa is not too fond of being reminded of. 

Sansa fights with herself to keep a composed expression when she sees the complete devotion and adoration in Lord Beric’s face as he holds his new bride’s hands in his. 

_How long will it be until someone looks at me that way again?_

She wipes away the stray tear that falls on her cheek as they new couple seal their marriage with a kiss that goes on a moment too long apparently, as the Septon has to clear his throat, a smile reaching his eyes. 

It’s when they’re all filing outside, walking out after the new Mr and Mrs Dondarrion that Sansa sees a head of midnight curls ducking in between people with a handheld camera—she frowns, watching him take photos of in the most obscure angles. 

The photographer probably feels her eyes. 

Sansa’s met with a surprisingly handsome face. 

His beard could use shaving, but it’s slightly unkempt in a way that she doesn’t mind actually. If anything Sansa figures he’s much more handsome with it than without; some men are like that. His grey eyes are so dark that they’re nearly black, two onyx stones piercing her, as if they see all and don’t miss a thing. 

He seems to know her instantly, like everyone else in the world, but rather than stutter some pleasantries or bow/incline his head at her, the man simply winks. It’s a silly, clumsy sight that makes the corner of her lips twitch upwards. 

The handsome stranger then raises the camera, completely nonchalant as he snaps a photo of her glaring at him. He turns and walks away, snapping more photos like nothing. 

Sansa stares after him.

_Well._

  
  
  


──── ✥✥✥────

  
  


The only pleasant thing about weddings, Sansa reminds herself, is that the wine never seems to stop flowing. Ire burns through her when she recalls Robb’s comment about her drinking far more than she used to; she hated that clueless, sullen look on his face as he told her that. Sansa fumes, seethes, and holds her grudges off to the far side of the reception hall—basically the ballroom of whoever’s castle this belongs to, maybe Allyria’s brother or sister, but she’s not sure and she doesn’t care enough to find out. 

Her face brightens when one of her dear friends, Willas Tyrell, shows his comely face, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Had he been at the wedding? He’s so easy to forget if Sansa’s being completely honest…

“To the bride and groom!” Someone hollers. 

“To the bride and groom!” The room echoes, laughing.

Sansa simply raises her glass, downing it in one breath. 

“Bloody awful things,” Willas says, gesturing to the room with a brief spin on his heel. “Weddings. I ought to find the bastard that invented them and wring his neck for making me attend them four times this month alone…dreadfully upsetting.”

Sansa gives her hand out for him to kiss. 

Willas does so. 

“They’re not so dreadful,” Sansa rebuffs, her posh accent more prominent when she’s countering with her opinion. “Especially if it is one's own.” 

“Still sighing wistfully after your Group Captain?” 

“Harry is not mine,” Sansa shakes her head, as if the pain will shake away, too. “He can never be.”

_Nor will he be anyone else’s. If our pact remains…._

But she can’t bear it any longer. 

By _it_ Sansa means loneliness. The solitude. She doesn’t think she can take another one of these charity appearances at weddings; seeing the devotion and knowing no one has that for her, it’s too much to put herself through. 

Sansa can’t be like the Queen Mother, no matter if she’s become her doppelgänger in looks, content with an eternity alone until death comes to unburden her and reunite Catelyn with Eddard...

“What am I to do, Willas?” Sansa asks, throat tight. 

Willas looks down at her, he’s a skyscraper, and no matter how willowy she is, it doesn’t beat the Tyrell’s and their endless height. His light brown brows raise at her question, imploring her to elaborate. 

“No one wants to take me on, apparently, just look at what they do when I glance at them,” She says, gesturing to the way men her age tend to look away as she meets their eyes. Sansa sighs. “I’m too daunting a prospect.” 

“Your brother is the King.”

“I know royal _fools_ more frightening than him...”

Willas chuckles. Sansa smiles. 

“I could give it a go—?” He suggests lowly.

Sansa shoots her eyes to him. _Did he really? No—_ When she was a girl, she told herself she’d want a grand show of an engagement. She wanted her family there, her father, she wanted to see Eddard clasp his large hand on the shoulder of her fiancée and bless the match.

Sansa is not a girl anymore. 

She’s been disappointed too many times to ever be that girl ever again. What was the point of a grand show? Eddard was not there to bless anything. He was somewhere up there, watching his joy, his Sansa, settle for a _suggestion_ of a proposal near the open bar and someone else’s wedding cake. 

“Don’t joke that way,” Sansa admonishes. “You’re a friend.”

“That’s usually the first quality one should look for in finding a husband, no?” Willas counters, smirking. “It’s not like our parents. There’s no more betrothals, consolidation of assets...we both have money. Money isn’t the issue.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sansa composes herself. With a playful smirk back at him, she says, “And frankly, there’s your money, and there’s mine.”

“Ouch,” Willas grins. 

“Willy, c’mon,” Sansa tilts her head. “Be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious,” He says, stuffing his hands in his slack pockets and looking down at her with those deep brown eyes. “We’d live in Scotland. Breed derby winners. Have an army of red haired children… though they’d have brown eyes I’m afraid—”

“Willas,” She cuts in. 

“I’d know the ropes better than most,” Her friend reminds. “I know the rules. Your family all know me and mine know yours. They’re, well I _think_ , not averse to me…”

“No, they’re not,” Sansa says. “They adore you.” 

Sansa’s mother did at least, she thought Willas was a fine man. In her mother’s eyes, any man that was susceptible to her commands was a _fine man_. Robb was cordial and awkward, but he was like that to everyone. Arya once called Willas ‘a spineless spaz’ who couldn’t properly sit atop a horse. 

“And I you,” Willas confesses. “Always have.” 

Sansa stares at him. He’s being genuine. She would’ve had to have been a ditz to not notice Willas’ constant and unwavering loyalty to her. It’s not like any other woman saw him as more than Princess Sansa’s Ol’ reliable. Her last-resort drinking friend. He was handsome enough for Sansa to take pride in having him on her arm when Gendry Baratheon, Ned Dayne, or Theon Greyjoy couldn’t be. 

Willas could be a good husband. He did know the rules of her family—he could learn how to wave more eloquently, sit straighter, talk smoother. She wouldn’t have to worry about him being unfaithful, again, it’s not anyone looked at Willas and saw something worth taking. Plus, she was the princess. She wouldn’t ever have to think twice about him insulting her. He would love her devotedly, there’s no doubt. 

And children with her hair and brown eyes wouldn’t be the most terrible thing…

  
  
  
  
  


──── ✥✥✥────

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sansa sits in the back gardens of Winterfell Palace. It’s a cool day, just cool enough to enjoy the outdoors. She gently bounces her niece on her lap. Princess Minisa is the babe of her dreams. Her winsome brown curls are pulled back with tiny pink clips; her big blue eyes stare at everything with wonderment, and she claps her chubby baby in delight hands every time her big brother, the heir apparent Prince Brynden, loops around them on his bicycle, carefully followed by Arya who was encouraging him the whole way. 

Robb sits on the seat beside her, drinking coffee while skimming through papers and smoking a cigar. He’s smoking far more openly now and she can tell it worries Jeyne, who keeps glancing at her husband whilst she follows her second born, Prince Hoster, as they blow bubbles nearby. 

“The wedding this weekend was well,” Sansa speaks up, directing it at Robb. Her brother looks up at her, surprised to hear her speak at him. “Lord Beric and Lady Allyria’s. An _interesting_ occasion…it somehow managed to lift the spirits and make one want to kill oneself but not quite... ” 

Robb offers a sympathetic look, smiling, “Mother said the same.”

Sansa scoffs lightly, “Mummy was the only nightmare about it. _Especially_ the whole train ride there,” She tells him with a heavy sigh. “Mercifully, they set a helicopter to bring us back…”

Her brother rolls his eyes at her dramatics.

“Papa! Papa look!” Brynden squeals in all his eight year old glee, lifting his hands off the bike handles. “Look at me!”

“Brynden careful!” Jeyne shrills out.

“He’s fine, Jeyne,” Arya waves her off. 

Jeyne doesn’t look convinced. 

“He’s brilliant, love,” Robb simply chuckles. He claps his hands at Brynden to cheer him on and baby Minisa goes along and claps as well. 

Sansa kisses her niece’s head. 

She figures now is as good a time as any. She clears her throat, “And strangely, in the middle of it, I found myself accepting a proposal offered to me...for my own marriage…”

Robb turns to her, “W-What?” 

The shock in his voice is evident. The other members of her family that are around hear her declaration too; Arya especially perks up, looking at her older sister with unsure grey eyes. 

Sansa can understand. Just a few months ago she was cursing Robb for keeping her away from her perfect match. She hasn’t been herself lately. She knows that. She knows how it all sounds. She knows how desperate she has become. She _knows._

“From whom?” Her brother asks, composing himself. 

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek.

“Willas Tyrell.” 

“ _Seven Hells_ —” Arya groans. 

“Arya.” Jeyne admonishes. 

Her younger sister relents. 

“So,” Sansa purposely focuses more on Minisa in her lap than the eyes of her siblings. “If I were to accept his proposal...it would be a yes from you?” 

Robb softens. 

Arya still looks unsure, full of pity more than anything. 

“Yes of course,” Robb tells her with certainty. “Willas is a fine man. It’s a definite yes. There is no reason the Crown would be against it, you needn’t worry.” 

Sansa doesn’t feel relieved. She isn’t sure she feels much of anything. There’s no joy. There’s not that rush of dreams and hopes that she got when Harry had proposed to her. Nothing. But her desperation trumps any past memories...if anything, Sansa feels like she’s half completed with something she never got to finish. 

“In fact, Jeyne and I were just speaking about our wedding anniversary,” Robb goes on, looking at his wife with a large smile. “We’re throwing a party to celebrate it. You and Willas could use that opportunity to formally announce your engagement there.” 

Sansa slowly nods, numb. 

“Yes...that’s—that’s a good idea.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Robb smiles even more grandly. 

“Papa come here!” Hoster giggles as he pops bubbles further on the yard. “Papa! Come chase me!”

“Wait, catch me, too!” Brynden gets off his bike and rushes towards his brother, giggling as well. 

Robb turns off his cigar. He jumps out of his seat to chase after his sons. Their laughter echoes in the cool air. Ten month old Minisa suddenly yawns, leaning back against her aunt Sansa, nuzzling in her arms with sleepy baby blue eyes. She’s determined to keep watching her brother play but her lids keep drooping. 

Sansa smiles, moving her pinkie down the bridge of Minisa’s little nose, back and forth until her eyes shut completely. She kisses her cheek. 

Arya takes the seat Robb had occupied. 

Her younger sister looks at her. “Willas? Really?” 

“Leave it,” Sansa says harshly. 

Her sister's face falls. “You can do better. You know you can,” She pushes on. “Better than a spineless git like Willas fucking Tyrell that’s for sure.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Arya.” 

“I do,” She says. “You know that.” 

“No ones ever taken Gendry from you,” Sansa throws in her face and glares before she reiterates, “You don’t know, not even for a second, what you’re talking about.” 

Arya immediately looks down, “Maybe not about that, no..” She agrees solemnly. “But I do know when my sisters acting irrationally to heal up wounds that marrying a _fool_ can’t fix—”

“Please, Arya,” Sansa shoots a look at a sleeping Minisa in her arms. “Don’t do this, don’t ruin this for me. It’s my decision, alright? I made this choice. Not anyone else. I’ve made up my mind and that’s it.” 

Arya looks at her once more. It’s full of sorrow. The pity is still there but very well concealed. Arya knows how much Sansa hates pity. It makes her feel out of control. She also knows how much Sansa seeks control, she looks for it more than she does anything else, more than cigarettes and expensive wines. She has so little of it nowadays...

“You can do better,” Arya says one last time. 

Then she runs off to help Robb catch their nephews. 

Sansa holds her niece closer to her arms. 

She shuts her eyes as she feels the wind blow through her hair. The shaky, broken breath she lets out is probably the worst sound she’s heard leave her in awhile. 

  
  


──── ✥✥✥────

  
  
  


Sansa feels like a true princess again. 

It’s the evening of Robb and Jeyne’s tenth wedding anniversary party. She spent most of her morning in a bathtub, relaxing in milk of roses—rosewater and oil of sweet almonds—a Dornish beauty secret Princess Arianne Martell, one of her dearest friends, divulged with her. It was for softening the skin and leaving a sweet scent that couldn’t be wiped away by anything and, more intimately, tastes divine on the tongue of a lover. 

She was dressed up in one of her favorite gowns; it was baby blue, like her eyes had returned to, the kind that the papers wrote sweet sonnets about. Looking in the mirror she realized she wasn’t so cold anymore; she had let herself be swept away in the excitement of it all. 

Her maids were adjusting her gown, smoothing it out when her private secretary, Beth Cassel, walked in with a breathless face. 

“Beth?” Sansa asks, concerned. 

“Sorry, princess,” Beth gasps for air. She holds her hand to her chest and puffs out her cheeks. “Lord Loras just rang. He says his brother is indisposed at the moment. Willas won’t be coming to the celebration.” 

“Willas? No, he can’t be unwell,” Sansa says with a shake of her head, fixing her lipstick. “We’re announcing our engagement.”

“He mentioned an injury,” Beth goes on. “A rather serious injury. He’s ordered to stay on bedrest, there’s worry if he will be able walk properly again…”

Sansa’s heart drops. 

_What?_

The driver immediately takes her into town, to Willas’ apartments that are off his family’s estate. When she gets off, she ignores the passersby that look at her in shock, since she’s all done up in her royal battle armor of course. She pushes past the attendants that await her at the door. 

Sansa goes up the stairs, bursting into Willas’ room.

She finds a doctor hovering over his leg, Willas with his back propped up against a mound of pillows. A gasp leaves her lips. His brow is cut, there’s a small bandage on it and his eye is blackened, like someone took a good swing at him. Overall Willas looks like he got a severe beating. _What he mugged? Who would dare harm Willas?_ A flood of protectiveness rushes over her and goes to sit at his side. 

The doctor tells him to keep his leg up. He nods to her respectively before the attendants usher the doctor out to let them have their privacy. 

“Willas?” She calls out, trembling. “Oh, what on earth happened? Who did this—?”

“No need for worry, darling,” Willas assures with slurred speech. He has a glass in his hand. 

Sansa suddenly narrows her eyes. “Willas.”

He gives her a forced grin.

“Are...you drunk?”

“Oh, don’t say it that way,” He slurs even more, chuckling as he takes another shot. “I had to do something for the pain. Those medicines weren’t doing a damn thing.” 

Sansa looks at his leg. It’s wrapped up. 

There’s blood staining from the gauze. She frowns. 

“What happened?” 

Willas grins. “Wait until you hear. You’re gonna laugh until you spit,” He says, chuckling himself. “Your friend Greyjoy rather took offense at something I did.” 

“You came to blows with Theon?” Sansa asks. 

Theon was one of her bestest friends, engaged to her lady in waiting Jeyne Poole. She loves them both so dearly. She knows Theon would do anything for her; he wouldn’t however, blacken the eye and bloody the leg of her soon-to-be fiancée for no reason. He knows how much Sansa values eye candy.

“I believe the word _duel_ was mentioned.” 

“A duel?” Sansa echoes. 

“A little childish in this day and age if you ask me,” Willas shrugs but nods. “Greyjoy issued the challenge. I stepped up to the plate. The others, Martell and Baratheon were there as well...it was Baratheon’s pistols we used.” 

( Sansa doesn’t know the truth yet: How Theon, who was at Lord Glover’s dinner party the other night, heard the vicious bragging Willas did to the flock of social climbing girls that heard the news of his engagement to the King’s sister. Most especially to the trio of ballerinas Willas fucked in the Glover guest room...something everyone heard. The last straw. Theon, Gendry, and Quentyn had promptly stormed in the room, yanked Willas away from the whores and dragged him to the Glover’s acre of land, without shoes and shirt, in the frigid midnight air. ) 

“Fucker shot me in the leg,” Willas says with a sneer, taking a swing of his wine. “Bloody awful thing.” 

Sansa can’t make sense of it in the moment. 

Theon wouldn’t do anything without reason. He was a purposeful man. Every breath Theon Greyjoy took had its own agenda. He doesn’t shoot a man who is supposed to be his dearest friends’ intended for no reason.

“...Why was Theon cross with you?” 

Willas says nothing right away. 

Sansa glares. “He wouldn’t have done anything unless provoked. That’s not Theon.” 

Willas chuckles again, “It’s the queerest thing. Ever since news of our engagement broke, I’ve found myself at the center of women’s affections,” He confesses with another laugh, as if it’s amusing. “I’m not used to being such a catch. It must’ve gone to my head a little bit...too much so, Greyjoy didn’t take too well to me fumbling in the sheets with a ballerina…very agile...she’s in theater at the moment...”

Sansa listens in disbelief. 

She can’t even breathe. This must be some cruel joke, some nightmare. It’s too much to be reality. But then she thought that a year or so ago when Robb denied her Harry...Sansa can see a real nightmare when it’s in front of her now. 

Willas...insulted her? _Willas_. 

Willas _flowery fucking_ Tyrell. Who’s grasping father has a stomach which protrudes so much he can’t see his own toes? Willas Tyrell who Sansa always took pity on and made sure felt included had the audacity, the gall, the _nerve_ to insult her, to fuck other women while he knew he was to marry her? 

The fury that courses through Sansa makes her wish she had her own pistol. She wishes Theon would’ve given her the satisfaction of shooting Willas in the leg herself. Maybe not to that extreme, but _gods_ does she wish she was there to watch...

“Yes, with reason,” Sansa whispers in disbelief. She shakes her head, her back is to him. “You _weak, contemptible fool_.” She doesn’t get to see him sober up in that instant. 

Willas stammers, “Sansa, I—”

“Shut up,” Sansa snaps.

She rubs her temples, trying to rid the headache that’s already formed. What is she going to tell Robb? Her family are at Winterfell Palace expecting her to waltz in with this fool any moment and—no, she won’t. There is no logic in all the Seven Hells that could convince her to still accept him as her husband. 

Sansa slowly faces him.

“I never even wanted to marry you. You were only ever an act of charity. Of my graciousness. The result of my desperation,” Sansa throws him as much fury as she can in her features. She knows her eyes are cold, cold, cold. “And you insult me? _You?_ I thought you knew who I am, Willas. You should know people like you don’t get to insult people like me. You get to be eternally grateful for my attention, for my presence, for my _breaths_.” 

She goes to his bedside, her face inches from his. 

“You think you’re such a catch?” She asks rhetorically, her lip curling cruelly. “Take a look at this face. The picture of hatred and disgust. This is what every girl after me will look at you with...you’ll be nothing when they find out I didn’t want you. They won’t either.” 

Willas looks near tears.

“This is what the next _forty_ years of your life looks like.” She whispers hatefully. 

Sansa pulls back. 

She grabs the wine from his hand, downing some before she throws the rest in his face. Willas sputters. Sansa angrily tosses the glass on the wall, making it shatter into thousands of diamondlike pieces. 

She leaves the room. 

“Samsa, wait!” He calls her name. “SANSA! _Fuck…._ ”

  
  
  


──── ✥✥✥────

“ _Your majesty, The princess Sansa said to tell you she will not be announcing her engagement tonight,”_ Jon Arryn tells King Robb. “ _She said she’d explain everything at length, later.”_

“Yes, I’m sure she will,” Robb sighs. 

Everyone watches Sansa come into the dining room, face cold and indifferent. The only one they waited for before beginning. It doesn’t miss those who know, her family mostly, how she walks in alone. She takes her seat beside Robb, as Princess Royal, and refuses to meet Jeyne’s concerned looks from the other side of the table. Arya is sipping wine, speaking to Gendry beside her who looks all too knowing why his girlfriend’s sister has arrived alone. The loyal, unspoken saying, “ _We had your back,”_ Gendry gives Sansa makes her feel a slightly bit better. 

Arya finally shoots a look at Bran and Rickon, urging them to act normal, since they stilled at the sight of their obviously furious oldest sister walking in and taking a seat in front of them. Sansa can’t bare the shame of meeting their worried faces just yet. 

Sansa most especially ignores the bewildered looks of the Queen Mother; Catelyn keeps looking towards the doors like they’ll open again and that _fine man_ Willas Tyrell will come and take the empty spot somewhere down the table. She can’t stand her mother’s stares right now. 

Dinner goes by like a breeze. Only polite words are offered to Sansa from the guests around them; Robb’s friends, the stoic Prime Minister Tywin and his kind wife, Lady Joanna. Sansa’s mind is briefly taken off the humiliation and ire she had bottled up. 

Robb stands after drinks are served. 

“I remember what my father said to me, once, a few days before Jeyne and I wed,” Robb speaks and everyone listens, silent, their eyes glazed with the sight of the wearer of the crown. “He told me that ruling can make one feel sick at times, also lonely…and it was very important to have the right person by your side to cure that loneliness. He said that he was very lucky in that regard with my mother.” 

Sansa glances to the Queen Mother. 

Catelyn’s eyes are glassy. She holds her hand to her chest, but her mask of poise never falters. 

“And ten years of marriage, every day since, has proved to me what I told him that day,” Robb stares at Jeyne who looks right back at him. “I do have the right person by my side.” 

Jeyne smiles tearily. 

Sansa looks down at her hands. 

“It’s a funny business,” Her brother goes on. He continues to look at his wife. “One sees the whole of that person, even the part they don’t see themselves, and presumably, they see that hidden part of you as well. One ends up knowing more about their partner than they do themselves. It can be difficult to...hold it all in, to keep from venting.” He pauses and Jeyne gives a small smile. “So you must come to an accommodation. A compromise. To take the rough with the smooth, no exceptions. Because it’s in that roughness, in those tears and in the pain, that you find the treasure.” 

Sansa sees the married couples around her nod slowly, looking at their spouses, sharing a secret smile of devotion.

“With that,” Robb grabs his glass, raising to, looking only at Jeyne as he says, “I’d like to make a toast in the name of love.” 

Sansa hears her breath shudder. 

“In the name of our country, in the name of steadfastness,” Robb declares. He smiles boyishly at his wife. “To another ten years with the right person at my side.” 

Jeyne wipes away her tears, smiling beautifully. 

“My love, my Jeyne. The Queen,” Robb inclines his head. 

“The Queen,” Everyone echoes. 

They all stand and cheer, the men rapping the table and making the utensils rattle on their fine china place settings. In the cheers and hollers, Sansa lets her tears flow freely, no one looks at her anyway. 

She pushes out of her seat. 

Sansa doesn’t even know where she’s going. 

She just had to go. She leaves the grand dining hall, not aware of the way her mother and sister stare after her in concern. The guards open the door for her. She rushes through the castle, not noticing how she ends up in the room that once belonged to her father. 

Sansa shuts the door behind her. 

How she’d give anything for Eddard to be sitting behind that desk. To see the genuine care in his solemn face when he asks her what’s wrong...

But all that’s there is his large, empty chair. 

Sansa staggers back, the room is too suffocating again, she reaches for the handle and bursts out. Running, and running, holding the end of her gown like some mad princess until she gets to her herse, slamming her palm on the window. The driver promptly takes her back to Torrhen House. 

Beth awaits her by the door, face drenched in worry at the sight of Sansa disheveled and mascara running down her porcelain cheeks. 

“No one is to disturb me tonight,” Sansa points a finger at Beth warningly as she clambers up the staircase. “I mean _no one_ , Beth. Do not let my mother on my side of Torrhen House.”

“Of-Of course, Princess,” Beth stammers. 

Sansa leaves her, rushing to her rooms. 

  
  


──── ✥✥✥────

  
  
  
  
  


It’s two in the morning when Beth Cassel hears it. 

The most heartbreaking sobs she’s heard since the night King Eddard died, once again coming from the Garden Room in Torrhen House. Princess Sansa’s private quarters. 

There’s that sobbing again.

_🎶My old heart…ain’t gaining no ground…🎶_

It’s mingled with the voice of Ella Fitzgerald—Princess Sansa’s most beloved jazz singer—coming from a record player at the highest volume. A paper once said that song was meant for the princess...how her eyes only belonged on an angel. But the lovely, bluesy, lonely voice mingled in echoes throughout Torrhen House and worries Beth infinitely more. 

_🎶...Because my angel eyes ain’t here…🎶_

Then the sound of things being thrown around, like heavy cushions and furniture; there's stomping is also heard. Glass breaking is heard shortly after. Beth pulls her robes on quickly. She doesn’t know where she gathers the speed to reach the floor Princess Sansa is on in the time she does but she does it anyway.

The door is closed though. 

Inside, Beth can’t see the complete disarray Sansa’s rooms have been put in. 

_🎶...Angel eyes, that old devil sent….they glow unbearably bright...🎶_

It’s a miserable, miserable sight.

Her sheets have been pulled off. There’s clothes thrown around the floor. Diamond and rubies glitter in the low lighting of Sansa’s room; even her most prized jewelry, jewels that once belonged to her queenly ancestors, the crown of the one who ruled for so many years, Queen Lysarra…it’s haphazardly hung on the peak of her vanity, like it’s not the most valued thing she owns. 

The stuffing from her plush pillows have been torn from their home. Feathers litter the floor, the bed, and every other inch they can lay on. It’s like a natural disaster had blown through. She remembers when the tabloids said, “Princess Sansa is the reason hurricanes are named after people.”

🎶 _...need I say, that my love’s misspent...🎶_

Sansa herself is in the middle of the room, smoking her tenth cigarette of the hour, singing along with a sobbing voice. Mascara streaked by tears and Arbor Gold. She’s in nothing but a silk shift, her blue robe hung off her shoulders in a way that the paparazzi would kill to photograph. 

Her tears mingle with the crescendo of the song. 

She clutches her chest, letting another round of sobs that scratch her throat into the open. 

Her brother's words echo in her mind, “ _You’ll love others…You’ll love others…”_

The memory of her family staring at her floods her mind, pitying her, disapproving of her, misunderstanding her and doubting her. They know a single thing about her. They can’t see it. They don’t care to see the lonely girl, the effervescent uncertainty, the so clearly unwell princess they have in their midst.

They don’t want to. 

🎶 _...the laughs and the jokes on me...🎶_

Sansa throws the glass on the bar table to the wall.

🎶... _Oh, where is my angel eyes…?🎶_

“‘Scuse me while I... disappear…” Sansa sings along. 

She sits down in the seat in front of the vanity. 

The woman looking back at her is not the girl in the birthday portrait she was forced to pose for weeks ago. The one wearing the dress with snowflakes on the skirt and winter roses in the crown. The woman in the mirror's reflection is a stranger, a horrible, miserable mimicry of someone Sansa doesn’t want to be anymore. She sees the woman she’ll be forever if something doesn’t change soon. She never used to look so cold, so unhappy. 

It’s her eyes, most of all, that she wants back to normal. 

🎶.. _angel eyes..🎶_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Beryl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives a long, hateful glance at the photo, hoping it’ll burn with the sheer force of her glare. No such luck. Her smile of fraudulence, captured and locked in that one frame, taunts her. She stands up, silent, going back over to her vanity and sitting in front of it. 
> 
> Princess in peril. How very apt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this sucks and sorry it took so long djfjdj i tried to make it as different as i could but sigh,,,creativity is lacking in my brain right now so sorry!!!

  
  
  


The record player still hums when the sun rises. 

The perilous princess hasn’t slept for more than an hour the entire night. There’s a dull throbbing in her temple that wouldn’t allow her, nor could she stop crying for more than a few minutes before her pillow—the one she didn’t rip apart—became soggy with her tears. Sleep was out of her reach so she took to just staring at the canopy of her bed; there was no sound except for her shaky breathing, the occasional whimper or sob, and the muted voice of Ella Fitzgerald.

Sansa sighs, a broken sound, before sitting up. 

The sun was visible through the curtains. The only thing from illuminating her room was the heavy fabric of the blinds. She lit a half smoked cigarette on her bedside table, taking a drag, looking around her room. 

The memories of her breakdown hours before make her heart clench painfully. 

She doesn’t want to be this person anymore, she’s  _ so _ tired of crying, of people making her cry. She’s just  _ tired— _

Her bedroom door suddenly swung open. 

“Good morning!” The Queen Mother sang. 

Her mother’s shrill, cheery voice makes Sansa’s jaw clench. She didn’t even turn to look at her. Catelyn made her way further in the room, each stride purposeful. Sansa was expecting her if she were honest. Even if she did tell Beth not to let her mother disturb her the night prior; Sansa  _ was _ alone all night, venting out her sorrows and disappointment without any intervention from her hovering mother. 

_ Technically _ , Beth did her job. The Queen Mother is nothing but gifted in the ways of maneuvering herself through technicalities. 

Sansa will let her keep it. 

“Oh, darling,” Catelyn says pitifully, like she’s speaking to a child. “This room. . .what a mess. . .I’ll have someone see to it shortly.. Don’t you worry.” 

Sansa says nothing. 

She doesn’t even flinch when her mother yanks back one of the curtains and lets the sunlight flood the room. The head maid, Osha, gives Sansa a sympathetic look as she picks up the furnishing that wasn’t destroyed, setting the cushions back to their rightful place on the various chairs and couches in the room. 

“I brought something to cheer you up,” Catelyn says as she sits on the opposite side of Sansa’s bed. She gestures for Osha to hand her the envelope on the silver tray she brought in. “Lord Manderly’s photographer, Cecil, has really outdone himself this time…”

Catelyn excitedly splays out several developed photographs. 

They’re of Sansa, of course. She felt like a cotton ball that day, ridiculous, more frivolous than usual. For her twenty-fifth birthday photoshoot from a few weeks ago; she remembers how Lord Manderly’s treasured photographer had broken out into a daft soliloquy about fictitious woman who lives in poverty, who on seeing the picture of the red-haired royal, will walk out renewed, feeling she is that princess in the picture. 

Except it’s nonsense. 

Anyone with eyes can see this princess is in peril.

Sansa gives a long, hateful glance at the photo, hoping it’ll burn with the sheer force of her glare. No such luck. Her smile of fraudulence, captured and locked in that one frame, taunts her. She stands up, silent, going back over to her vanity and sitting in front of it. 

Princess in peril. How very apt.

Her mother makes a note not to stare at her too long. She probably can’t stand the pitiful sight of her either. Sansa grabs the small bottle of makeup removing cream and pumps some into her hands, rubbing it over her eyes and trying to relax from the lavender scent that it omits. 

Her mother’s chirpy voice makes that impossible.

“And with regards to Willas Tyrell—”

White hot vitriol courses in her veins then, not blood. 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Sansa cut off sharply. “Mention that name.” 

Sansa wipes her face clean, using the warm washcloth and Osha immediately offers along with the bowl of steaming water to clear her lungs, a fruitless attempt at waking her up further. 

“I’ve had him on the telephone to me all morning,” Catelyn says, her lips pulled in a pout, like she feels sorry for the man and not her own daughter. “He’s quite distraught. Then his father and his mother and then his  _ grandmother _ ; you know Olenna, she was most certainly scolding him on his boyish mistakes—”

“Mistakes…” Sansa echoes, then laughs bitterly. 

“—she assures that he now understands his role—”

“No, I’m never speaking to him again.” Sansa vows. 

Catelyn only smiles, unfaltering, determined. 

“Then we will find you someone else.” 

That's her family’s only solution it seems when dealing with her. Ever since Harry was exiled for two years before Robb officially denied them permission to marry, that’s what they all hoped anyway; “Sansa will find someone else,” and the most irritating, “Sansa will find her someone to rid the memory of Harry.” Someone else…someone else….it was always left to  _ someone else  _ to repair their disappointment princess. 

Like they don’t believe Sansa can repair herself. 

Like they know her at all. 

She  _ hates _ them. 

Deep down, Sansa knew her mother and her mother’s weak puppet, Petyr Baelish, had been the ones to orchestrate the whole plot to send Harry away to that posting in the Reach in the first place…it was another reason Sansa would never forgive her mother either. 

If it were up to the Queen Mother, she’d be officially engaged to Willas, someone malleable and just emotionally misshapen enough for their lifestyle to create a new mold from him. Sansa will never, ever, trust her mother to find her someone else. Catelyn was the paragon for royalty, for duty, for learning to see the shiny parts of people made from the shimmers of cubic zirconia. 

But Sansa didn’t want an illusion, she didn’t want a mimicry of a jewel, she wanted someone to blind her with their glaring spirit. She wanted her heart to skip a beat at the sight of them, the way the winter diamonds in her favorite crown make people dazed. 

“I don’t want you to find me anyone,” Sansa says to her mother, hating the way her voice cracks. 

“Elmar Whent of Harrenhal,” Catelyn says, completely disregarding Sansa’s shaky plea. “He’s a distant cousin. His mother was a worshiper of that Lord of Light  _ but _ their lands are still intact—”

“No one, no one,” Sansa shuts her eyes, whispering. 

“—and everyone says that Elmar gives a very good show of himself on the polo field—”

“ _ NO ONE _ .” Sansa snaps. 

“ _ Someone,”  _ Catelyn carries on, still very chipper, still much unfazed. “Suggested Prince Quentyn of Sunspear. A descendant of Queen Nymeria…” She tells Sansa like she isn’t friends with Quentyn and his sister, Arianne. “...I do fear he’s a little plain looking and shy and can’t stay on a horse but we don’t hold that against him.” 

Sansa ignored her. It’s better that way. 

And another cigarette was lit. 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


“I know what the duties of a lady in waiting entail,” Sansa drawled whilst on the phone with Lady Jeyne Poole. “Getting my mail, accompanying me on foreign trips, talking to dull people I rather not be lulled to sleep by...but do you think...another duty can be added to that?” 

Jeyne chuckles fondly on the other line. 

_ “Depends,”  _ Her friend says.  _ “What duty? Is it a dreadful bore?”  _

“A pain,” Sansa amends mildly. “Within me.”

“ _ Oh? Oh,  _ Gods,  _ princess—!”  _ Jeyne gasps, acting scandalized. 

“Hush,” The royal lets out a weak laugh. 

“ _ Sansa, my love, you know I’m here. Beyond a lady waiting on you, I’m your dearest,”  _ Jeyne’s use of formality is gone. Her voice is that dropped in that low murmur, the one reserved for Sansa in her most fragile moments. She equally resents and loves Jeyne for the sound of it.  _ “What do you need?”  _

Sansa taps her cigarette on the crystal ash bowl. 

“A ladder,” She says first. “A very lengthy one, yes I’m aware that’s their purpose but I need one that allows me to jump this wall and escape.” 

Jeyne makes a small sighing sound. 

“ _ How dreadful have they been? _ ” 

“Their very best,” Sansa’s voice cracks. 

_ “Yes,”  _ Jeyne says through clenched teeth and as much politeness she can muster. “ _ Your mother does a fine job at going forward…”  _

“I just—” Sansa pauses, her voice cracking more. “I can’t bear it, Jeyne. I really can’t...” 

There’s some static in the line. Then a pause. Like Jeyne covered the speaker with her palm and began whispering to someone near her. Sansa suspects it’s Theon most likely, if he’s not at the Club. But it’s Monday, the Club is closed then...or is it Thursday? Sansa cannot tell. Time does not mean much to her nowadays. 

Jeyne’s voice returns to the phone. 

“ _ If you’re looking for an escape, we’re having some people over to dinner tonight _ ,” Her lady says. “ _ Theon and I… _ ” 

Sansa’s interest peaks. 

Theon and Jeyne were known for their dinner parties. Theon was the type of man to surround himself with ‘interesting people’, to quote him directly. Growing up with being catered to your every whim and served dry and unseasoned poultry was not interesting enough for Theon; who preferred the stories of friends who dined in the Eyrie or ventured to Skagos or drank cactus water in the Dornish deserts.

Which is why Sansa can always count on hearing him say around her, “ _ I know a incredible man who never—”  _ and _ “I once dined with a fascinating woman who always—”  _

“What, normal people?”

Jeyne chuckles, “ _ Yes, well, they’re all normal _ .” 

Sansa hums. 

“ _ But, in their own way, they’re all quite exceptional, too.”  _ Jeyne goes on explaining.  _ “But you know the company Theon prefers...they’re possibly not deferential.”  _

Again, Sansa hums. 

She hasn’t been respected for more than two decades. She doesn’t think a night with common people and their indifference can harm her any more than what poison her family has already stung her with. 

“That’s alright,” Sansa tells Jeyne. “As long as they meet the basic requirements.” 

_ “Ahh,”  _ Jeyne’s laugh is like bells clinking. “ _ Of course.”  _

Suddenly the phone sounds moved. 

Theon’s voice floods the speaker, “ _ Which are, princess?”  _

Sansa grins to herself. 

“Basic rules, essential rules,” She says. “Make sure none of them breeds horses, looks prettier than me, owns land…” She takes a deep drag of her cigarette, blowing it out before saying with clenched teeth, “Or knows my mother.” 

Theon’s chuckle is warm and rough. 

“ _ Trust me, princess. Not this lot.”  _

That, surprisingly, is enough for Sansa. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The address that Sansa was given was one that she did not recognize. She frowns up at it. Not because it’s hideous or anything, it isn’t. She just feels...unfamiliar. Something tells her this won’t be the first time she feels this way tonight. It takes a moment for her to realize it must be the new home Theon had acquired, the one he bragged about obtaining from some old conservative man for a price that was one dollar above being a total  _ steal _ . It’s nice, homely; a flat that Sansa, in a life where she wasn’t the person she was, might’ve liked to call her forever home. 

She’s nervous and she doesn’t know why. 

She figures it out when she gets let in after knocking on the door, the sour smell of cheap wine and the comfort of cigarette smoke flooding her nose. 

These people aren’t the kind Sansa is used to having around her. They’re of humble means, their surnames don’t go back years and years...they don’t nobility threaded into the marrow of their bones. 

They’re  _ normal _ , like Jeyne said. 

None of them gasp or seem flustered but many of them eye her with curiosity that bordered on indifference. She sees several men give her the same lustful look she’s used to by now...what surprises her is that women seem to gape at her just as shamelessly. 

_ Oh,  _ Sansa feels her neck heat up,  _ Where's Jeyne—? _

“You’re here!” The lady in question squeals.

Sansa’s best friend has always been drenched in divinity, she is a stunning woman, everyone with eyes knows this. But there’s something especially lovely around Jeyne now that Theon and she have stepped out of society obligations these past few months...

Jeyne’s dark complexion is stunning in the dim lighting of the home, it glitters from the makeup powder she uses on her bosom, which spills out generously from the tight emerald-colored party dress she wears. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” Jeyne confesses. 

“Arya and I were forced into tea with the Queen and my mother,” Sansa says, brows furrowed at her own explanation. “I’m here now.”

“Yes,” Jeyne holds her hands. “You  _ are _ .” 

There’s a loud holler and some demands for music to be played and the person on the piano and another on bass start a raunchy tune that makes a couple start dancing madly, the woman grinding on the man as she undoes the top buttons of her blouse. Jeyne laughs, clapping for them. 

“Jeyne,” Sansa breathes out, the sight of the dancing making her pulse race. “Who are these people?” 

“ _ Friends _ ,” Jeyne says with emphasis, smiling. 

Theon comes up behind his fiancé. 

“And friends of friends.” He says, kissing Sansa’s cheek. 

“Hello, you,” Sansa greets him. 

“They’re harmless, princess,” Theon assures. He sweeps the room with his eyes and tilts his head. There’s a couple in the corner who are chugging down their wine glasses. “Eh,  _ most _ of them at least.” 

Jeyne swats his chest, “Hush,” she says. “You’ll scare her.” 

Subtly, Sansa stands straighter. She didn’t know these people and even if they were already 

“I don’t scare so easily, Jeyne,” Sansa frowns, looking at Theon who is grinning in approval, glancing down at his fiancéas if to say,  _ see? _ Sansa smooths her dress. “Introduce me.” 

Theon winks. 

He kisses Jeyne on the lips, smacking her behind making her scowl before he claps his hands repeatedly, gaining the attention of everyone in the sitting room. 

“Everyone!” Theon bellows. “We have a very special guest in our midst tonight...no, not you Satin,  _ sit— _ ” Sansa walks up to Theon’s side and he extends a hand. “I introduce her royal highness, Princess Sansa!” 

To her surprise, no one gets up. 

There’s no scrambling to kiss her knuckles or curtsy at her waist. Nothing manufactured or scripted. Just genuine smiles fueled by kindness or Arbor Gold, some simply nod in acknowledgement before continuing their conversations, whilst others wave and beam. 

“That’s Allard Seaworth on the piano,” Theon points. 

The man, Allard, plays a tune. Chuckles erupt. 

Sansa smiles. 

Theon gestures over women with skin a few shades lighter than Jeyne’s, they’re so obviously Dornish and beautiful and Sansa swears she recognizes them. “And this is Tyene and her sister Nymeria, they’re Prince Oberyn’s daughters—” 

“ _ Bastard  _ daughters,” Nymeria amends. 

“Oh, that’s a given,” Tyene grins, looking at Sansa. “We wear it like honor, my princess...” 

She offers the princess a hand to shake. 

There’s a tension that rises suddenly. 

Sansa understands then. It’s a test. The princess at a party with individuals that her status would never allow her to be with. Everyone fails at their subtlety as they wait for Sansa’s next move, watching her from over the tip of their glass goblets. Nevertheless Sansa takes the hand the woman offers and shakes it. The tension in the room dissipates instantly and the party resumes. 

Theon chuckles as Jeyne beams at her. Sansa can already tell this night will be longer than others but for the first time in months, she doesn’t think that’s such a terrible thing at all. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


At dinner, Sansa is seated between two men—one named Grenn and the other named Pyp—who act as if she isn’t there at all. They throw back pretentious words, which says a lot from someone with an education that has given her quite an extensive vocabulary, heated arguments about the sickening Slave trade in Essos and whether or not the few Valyrians hiding away in that foreign country could be considered a threat to their nation once again. 

Vaguely, Sansa wonders that, too...

Dinner ends soon after, most of them dispersing from the dining room and back to the entertainment in the living area. 

Sansa tries to light a cigarette but scowls at her useless lighter. She swore it had more fluid just this morning...the thought of cutting back on smoking passes her but the realization that she’d have to  _ face _ her problems—the ones that cannot be blown away—trigger her to shut  _ that _ idea down. 

“You must be thinking,” says a husky voice behind her, circling around to stand right in Sansa’s view. “These people must not have a  _ clue _ who you are...” 

Sansa assesses who spoke. 

She’s good at that, good at seeing through a person until they’re throughly iced from her glare. The man in front of her is roughly her age, give or take a few years, and enough handsomely roguish looks to hand her all the warning she needs to  _ know _ that he’s trouble. The longer she stares the quicker she picks up on the patrician beauty hidden in the sharp edge of his jaw and straightness of his nose. 

He’s not her usual sort of company at all. 

His hair is dark, almost black, and his eyes are nearly the same shade. He’s wearing a light grey suit that he doesn’t seem the least bit comfortable in, the top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone and his coat looks wrinkled. There might not be a single thing about him that Sansa can say she’s used to seeing. She doesn’t know what to think. 

But he doesn’t seem to notice her stiff hesitance for him, or if he does, he simply doesn’t care. Either way he takes the seat right in front of her, twisting it so that he’s leaning his chest on the back of the chair. 

“And,” He continues speaking, bringing out a lighter forward toward the cigarette between her lips. “That these dabblers and freaks seem to know one another pretty well…”

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa lets the stranger light her cigarette. 

She takes a drag. Then says, “You shouldn’t assume what people are thinking. It’s  _ rude _ .” 

He seems unfazed. 

“It’s not an assumption. I know.”

“What, are you some Lord of Light fanatic or something?” 

His lips curl, amused, “Or something.” The stranger tells her in his low voice. “You’d be absolutely correct to assume that by the way.” 

Her eyes narrow again, “Correct to assume—?” 

“That everyone here knows each other well.” 

Sansa looks around briefly. The ease of the atmosphere around her can only be produced by comfortable lot that have known each other for years and years. It’s not so easily manufactured...Sansa would know. She hums. 

“Well  _ that’s _ obvious.” 

“Is it?” He asks her back, the corner of his mouth curling upwards again. He pulls out a cigarette of his own then lights it, smiling. “I suppose it is...well, your highness, be honest. Can you remember any of these  _ common _ names?” 

Sansa’s jaw twitches at his words.

“No, not really,” She answers truthfully. 

“Don’t remember me either?” 

She frowns. “What, we’ve met?” 

“We have,” He takes a drag of his cigarette. 

But Sansa doesn't remember. He  _ knows _ she doesn’t and seems incredibly validated by his words. Again, he rubs her the wrong the way and she feels irritated by the way her heart races every time a dumb, vindicated smile appears on his lips. 

“ _ Where _ have we met?” Sansa asks. 

Again, he smiles. “Perhaps it’ll come to you.” He turns in his seat and looks around. “Right, introductions...where to begin?  _ Ah!  _ Far corner, the tall dark-haired woman—”

“The Dornish one.” 

“My sister,” He amended. 

Now Sansa feels confused. Her eyes are showing her a pale complexion, nearly pink by the way his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol he’s consuming, and the woman he claims is his sister probably couldn’t dream of being described as anything near  _ pale.  _

“Your sister,” Sansa echoes. “Adopted, surely?” 

“ _ That’s _ an assumption.” He raises a brow. “I thought it was rude to do so? Or do the rules always have an exception for royalty?” 

Sansa bristles. “ _ No— _ ”

“She’s my half-sister,” He cuts in. “Rhaenys.” 

The name was  _ not _ common. Sansa knows that. It was the sort of name descended from Valyria, again, confusion floods the princess. The stranger’s—( who she still didn’t know the name of ) sister— _ Rhaenys _ was so obviously Dornish in complexion yet, had a brother who looked like he came from somewhere North, somewhere Sansa’s fathers’ family descended from,  _ and _ a Valyrian name. 

Sansa takes a drink of Arbor Gold. “That’s very—” 

“Valyrian?” He guesses. Then nods. “It is. We are… _ half  _ at least, from my father. So our mothers say. I don’t think we would’ve believed them had Egg not looked the way he did.” 

“E-Egg?” Sansa tries out. 

He chuckles. “For Aegon. Our brother. He’s over there, by the band,” He points over to the dining room, to a platinum haired man strumming a guitar. “He likes singing. The bastard’s good...fortunately for our ears.” 

Sansa looks back to him.

“Any more of your family around?” 

“None that I know,” He confesses. “Though I sort of think this fellow I saw once at a pub in the Reach had my eyes…” 

“Your father must’ve been a  _ very _ bored man.” 

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes, “Bored. Rich. Trying to make an empire...same thing as all Valyrian’s tried to do.” 

Sansa feels her face darken. It’s not common to hear ‘Valyrian’ around. Not when they were ones responsible for the death of her grandfather in the war; Kingslaying was a word nearly as vile as Valyrian. 

“You  _ do _ know the stigma about Valyrians here, don’t you?”

“I know enough,” He tells her. Smiling he adds, “There's rumors the royal family know as well.” Sansa stiffens at his pointed words.  _ My brother's wife.  _ He goes on, “I’m not just talking about a random bastard who’s your third cousin twice removed…”

“You’re talking about the King's consort.” 

“Funny way to say sister-in-law.” 

He had her there. 

“Hmm,” Sansa lets out. “We’re a funny type. The jokes are usually on us.” 

Once again, she takes a swing of her drink. 

Maybe it was the alcohol or the fact that the fire of her temperament had been so quick to light these days and everything was too sad for her, it bordered on  _ humorous _ now, but Sansa felt half curious and half amused at the stranger's words. 

No one talks to her the way  _ he _ does. No one has ever dared to. Her family’s name commands respect. To everyone she’s always been Sansa, Princess Royal. Sansa, the lovely. Sansa, the former Kings  _ joy _ . Sansa, the new Kings  _ nuisance— _ No one talks to her as bluntly as this; not even  _ Arya _ in all her brusqueness...even she has a print of aristocracy attached to her insults. 

But this nameless stranger who acknowledges his Valyrian half-siblings with pride and speaks to her as if she’s  _ normal _ and his smile is  _ nice to have when it’s at you... _

Sansa composes herself. She knows her eyes probably look like two shards of ice now, “I suppose Theon and Jeyne really do invite  _ anyone _ off the streets these days…” 

He fakes a wince. But it’s half true. 

“That sounded like something a royal would say.” 

“Well, I  _ am _ royal,” Sansa says. 

He stares at her for a while. 

“Yes...that’s plain to see,” His eyes rake over her, it makes her feel naked—she won’t admit how much she doesn’t mind  _ him _ looking at her that way. “Now, back to introductions. That pink chap in the far corner is Axel Flowers—he’s from the Reach, clearly, makes documentaries for the NBC, travels everywhere on a bus…” He trails off to look at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips again. “You’ve probably never been on a bus.” 

Sansa hums. The image is just too funny. 

“No,” She replies, tapping off cigarette ash. 

“Pity,” He sighs. “You really do meet the best people.” 

Sansa doesn’t doubt it. 

“Over there by the bar, is Jarl, he’s an Explorer; he’s been beyond the Wall.” He tells her. “Next to him is his wife, the blond beauty…”

She was beautiful. Rough, if not a little unrefined judging by the way she kept hunting the olives from her drink and eating them like peanuts. She gulped down her husband's beer when he wasn’t looking. But she’s sharp, from her chin to her nose. 

“Oh she’s an eight,” Sansa comments. 

“Isn’t she?” He stares after her. 

“The one that got away?” 

He looks back to her, “Not quite. Jarl is not a stingy man, thank the Gods…I’ve heard he can skin a goat like no one else.” 

Sansa realizes what he means. 

She looks around to avoid her cheeks from burning up. 

She catches someone of interest; she feels like she’s seen the woman before, maybe in a magazine or— “Tell me about her over there,” She nods subtly to the opposite side of the table. “The woman with the extraordinary eyes.” 

They were extraordinary. Violet wasn’t a color you saw everyday, it wasn’t near the unnerving shade of Valyrian’s. The handsome woman’s eyes were purple and piercing, even from where Sansa sat in dim lighting. 

“Ashara Dayne,” He tells her. “The Lady Jenny. She played opposite Madam Crane in that film about Prince Duncan’s wife…” 

“Oh  _ it is  _ her, is it?” Sansa says excitedly. It deflates slightly when she remembers the music box gifted to her by her father…it hummed that tune. “Jenny of Oldstones...” 

“Good film,” He nods. 

“Even better a song.” 

“Fan of the ancients are you?” 

Sansa only stares at her hands. “Everyone likes to hear that a sadness like  _ that _ was real back then, too. Makes what one feels at the current moment all more validating....” 

“Been sad, have you?” 

Sansa doesn’t answer right away. 

Another moment passes, “For a while.” 

“You should try listening to something better,  _ happier _ .” He suggests. 

That makes her sigh, “Does such a song exist?” 

He thinks about that. “I suppose not.” He nods at her, as if realizing. He downs his drink. “Good songs tend to be a real kick to the throat. That  _ is  _ what makes them good.” 

Sansa thinks so, too. 

“That’s why,” He continues, standing up. He offers his hand and she stares at him for a brief moment. “Sometimes you have to make your own. Life isn’t a song, Red.”

Sansa knows  _ that _ , as well. 

She takes his hand. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Tell me about you.” Sansa demands as they walk around Theon and Jeyne’s new home. 

“Oh,” He laughs, like she said a joke. “You really don’t remember. I thought...nevermind.” He clears his throat. 

She frowns, expecting an answer. 

“I’m a photographer.” 

It clicks in Sansa’s mind then. The goofy wink. The camera and the quick snap he took of her at Allyria Dondarrion’s wedding to Lord Beric. It was  _ him.  _

“ _ Oh.  _ You’re the wedding photographer!” Sansa sounds accusing. 

He groans. 

“ _ Not _ my normal line of work,” He's quick to defend, as if that title is beneath him. “It was just a favor to my sister's friend…” 

Sansa smiles. ( She's doing a lot of that tonight. ) 

“So what is your  _ normal line _ of work?” 

He looks excited now. He leads the way further through the home until they’re at the staircase. Dozens of framed black and white photos are hung on the cream-colored walls. They’re … unique. Sansa has never seen photos like this in real life. She sees in books about museums in Dorne, the kinds the Rhoynar might’ve painted...they’re close and candid and get closer with each picture she passes. 

“Hmm,” Sansa says as she climbs the stairs, running her hand on the railing. “And if one where to get the pleasure of your work, to whom would the check be signed to?” 

He leans on the railing, grinning. 

“You could’ve just  _ asked _ me my name normally, Red.” 

She glares. At the sound of the unclever nickname for the second time  _ and _ the fact he pointed out her awkwardness. 

“Jon Snow.”

_ Snow.  _ “Surely short for Jonothor?” 

“No,” He makes a face. “Just Jon.” 

“Jon Snow,” She says, nodding to herself. A baseborn name for a baseborn. “You’re from the North, then. Or rather, your mother is....? Since your father's name probably has one vowel too many.” 

He doesn’t seem offended. 

But she notices he doesn’t seem too keen on saying anything about his mother. Maybe there is a line she cannot cross with Jon Snow after all. 

“My mother is from here,” Is all Jon confesses, then seemingly composed himself. “Now, if we’re being honest...I haven’t been quite sure which princess  _ you _ are. Is it Arya or Sandra—“

“It’s  _ Sansa  _ and you know it.”

He chuckles. He's deflecting. Sansa knows it, she’s made an art of it, no one can fool her the way she can fool others. ‘ _ Mother’ is really not a subject to touch on... _

“Anyway,” She smooths her dress. “These portraits—” 

“I don’t like that word.” 

She turns back, Jon’s right behind her. Too close. His chest hit her back when she stopped abruptly. “Oh _ sorry. _ ” 

He lets her continue on walking. 

“It’s too stuffy a word,” Jon carries on explaining. “Too deferential and conventional.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to him to see his face of disdain. “I despise posturing...” 

“Hence the candidness.” 

“I don’t care much for pretentiousness or humbug, either.”

Sansa glares at him some more. She can tell when she’s being pointedly mocked. She’s had to sit through many dinners listening to the Prime Ministers wretched daughter take jab after jab at her. Jon doesn’t seem fazed by her stare, one of only a small few.

“Who says  _ humbug  _ anymore?” She scoffs. 

Jon doesn’t say anything, he only stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugging. 

“You get so close,” She gestures to the portrait of a showgirl that’s somewhere that looks like Dorne. She isn’t facing him anymore. “Isn’t it rather an intrusion?”

“I like getting close,” His voice is behind her, but she feels his eyes elsewhere. “It lets me see clearer...I like to know what and who my subject is. I don’t like facades. I don’t want to see what the rest of the world might see at first glance.” 

Sansa breathes in softly. 

She thinks of the horrid portrait taken of her by Lord Manderly’s photographer. That fallacy, that facade he made her put her on...some magical princess who can take away life’s problems. That may be her power, the one being the sovereign's sister granted, but it’s clear that it’s at the cost of never being able to solve her own. 

“So I get closer,” Jon’s shoulder brushes against hers. 

Sansa turns to him. From this close, she can see that his eyes aren’t black at all—they’re grey, with flecks of indigo. It looks like the grey won the battle of his irises and casted out any hue of purple it could. 

“To intrude.” Sansa replies, blowing cigarette smoke in his direction. 

Jon hums this time. 

“Perhaps,” He relents. “But I  _ always _ see what I hoped for.” 

“And what’s that, Jon Snow?” 

She can smell his cologne and his warmth seeps into her just from his shoulder. It’s as close as she’s been to a man in so long. It isn’t desperation to be held, like with Willas. Nor is it the promise of safety, like with Harry. 

It isn’t anything she’s felt before. 

Jon takes the cigarette from her fingers, his lips touching where hers did just moments ago. He takes a long drag before he answers. He doesn’t let the smoke fan her, though. 

“The truth.” 

Sansa looks away.

“Nobody wants the truth,” She repeats what her mother once told her. She never forgot it. “It’s overrated. It’s not pretty. People face the truth everyday...they need something to drag them away from it once and awhile.” 

“But it’s the  _ truth _ ,” He insists. “There’s some beauty to that.”

Sansa presses her lips together. 

“There’s nothing beautiful about anyone’s truth, Jon.” 

Jon doesn’t say much. He only considers her. He hands her back her cigarette, looking deep in thought. Wordlessly he walks down the stairs as the call for a toast to end the evening is hollered out by Theon. He waits for her to follow him. Sansa sees the way several women wave at Jon as he passes them but he pays them no mind. They give her false smiles as they notice her trailing behind him. 

For once that night, Sansa feels like they finally acknowledge she’s more than them. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


“How would you feel about taking my photograph?” 

Sansa decides this exactly four seconds after Theon’s half drunken toast. For some inane reason, she wants to know what truth of hers that Jon will see. If he can tolerate it, if he can comprehend it and then, Sansa can see for once if the problem is not herself but the facade she holds up for everyone.

She needs to know if Jon Snow can find the beauty in the hideous truth of a princess in peril. 

Jon doesn’t seem surprised.

“I’d consider it.” 

She didn’t think he’d make it easy. She rolls her eyes.

“You can name your price—”

“I’d do it for free,” He cuts her off. “On one condition.” 

Sansa turns to him. He’s already looking at her.

“When you come to my slum of a studio,” He pauses to throw a grin at her unamused face. “You leave the titles and the ‘princess’ business outside—”

“ _ Happily— _ ” 

“—And for the duration of the session, you do everything I say,” He says like it’s a challenge. But she knows there’s another meaning to his demand of dominance. 

She doesn’t mean to glare at him for the  _ thousandth _ time that night, but she does anyway. He’s so easy to glare at, it’s easier and less embarrassing than the alternative look of dumbfoundedness. 

Who does he think she is, really? 

Jon narrows his eyes for a second. “Oh don’t look like that, Red,” He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath fanning her neck. Several moments pass before he says, “You’re  _ dying _ to. I can tell...”

Sansa rolls her shoulders back, standing straighter. 

“To— _ what?”  _

_ “Be a supplicant.”  _

Jon pulls back, smiling as if he had just told her what the weather would be like in the morning. He goes back to cheering on one of Theon’s friends who is attempting to chug down a pint of ale. She scowls at the side of his face. 

Supplicant? 

Instead of saying she's very much in control of herself and of others and she has never been obedient of anyone’s orders since her father died, Sansa says nothing at all. She simply yanks a glass of wine from someone that passed her by, daring them to say a word. 

Jon chuckles from beside her.

It makes her smile. But she doesn’t let him see that. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Surprisingly, Sansa accepts Robb’s invitation for breakfast. 

She doesn’t really know why. What she  _ does _ know is that she needs to tell someone about Jon Snow. Not Jeyne or Theon, not someone who already knows him, but someone from her family. Maybe it’s childish of her to crave just the  _ tiniest _ bit of disapproval to make her want to know Jon Snow even more than she does. 

“It was the first place that I've been to where no one got up or curtsied,” Sansa tells Robb, her brother looking a bit bewildered by her description. “Some of them didn’t even look at me at all. It was …  _ something.”  _

moi

Robb drinks his coffee. “Sounds like something.” 

“And there was this one in particular,” Sansa knows her eyes are lighter at the change of subject. She can tell by the way her brother blinks twice whilst looking at her. “Jon.” 

“Jonothor, surely?” Robb makes a face. 

“No,” Sansa chirps. “Just Jon.  _ Jon Snow _ .” 

“He's a bastard,” Her brother states more than questions. 

She shakes her head. “He was actually very kind. A bit moody, but, I wouldn’t go that far as to say—”

“I mean,” Robb cuts in. “He’s illegitimate. His mother had him out of wedlock. He has no true surname.” 

“You make that sound so scandalous.” Sansa smiles at the way he bristles. “I just told you his surname, it’s Snow.” 

Robb sighs. 

“I’m glad to have met him,” Sansa says honestly and revels in the way her brother frowns. “As soon as I got home I immediately phoned Jeyne and asked her,  _ what are the top five things I need to know about that man _ ?” 

“Why five?”

“Seemed like the right number.” 

“Why not three?” 

“Oh, he’s far more interesting than  _ three _ ...” 

The attendants come in and place down their breakfast along with some more coffee. They set down the papers and already there’s a headline of Sansa getting out of a car and standing outside Theon’s new flat. 

Robb shows it to her. 

Sansa hums, but she’s grinning. 

“So what did Lady Jeyne tell you?” 

“About?”

“The Snow from the party.” 

“Ahh. Let’s see... _ oh _ , he’s half-Valyrian,” She lists off like it’s not anything to be ashamed of. Robb only stiffens. “His sister is an aspiring actress, she’s been in musicals, and his brother plays the harp  _ beautifully.  _ And! He travels everywhere on a  _ motorcycle _ …”

“What's the fifth?” 

“That was five.” 

“No, Sansa, that was  _ four.” _

She smiles. “Well, alright. Five is...I liked him.” 

Robb subtly rolls his eyes. He looks down at his newspaper and sighs. “Yes, I can tell as much. You’re smiling more than you have this past year…its—” 

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Sansa confesses. She leans back in her chair and thinks more about Jon, about the night before and the way he talked to her.. “He’s also a bit strange, too. But honest. Too honest, perhaps. There’s also a contempt in him...I could see it.”

Robb looks at her. “Contempt for what?” 

“For us.” Sansa answers, looking at her brother directly. She holds his gaze. “For everything we stand for, everything we represent.”

Her brother takes a breath. 

“I actually think you’d like him,” Sansa admits. “That’s what's so dangerous about him.” 

Robb looks less convinced. “And you want to know more about a man that holds contempt for your family will treat you?” Her brother asks in a petulant tone. 

She doesn’t answer right away. 

“I’ve known many men who love my family, and who my family claim they love, too,” Sansa says after a moment. She refers to Harry, who her father cared for deeply, who her entire family counted on at one point. “What can Jon Snow do to me that hasn’t been done tenfold?” 

Robb knows this. 

“I just—” Her brother begins. He seems to think before speaking this time. “After what happened with Willas Tyrell, I don’t know, I rather not see someone else hurt you...”

Sansa shakes her head. 

She doesn’t find herself hungry anymore. Her throat feels too tight to let any food go down. Her brother talking about the way he  _ rather not see her hurt again  _ causes bile to rise, acidic, stomach churning. He had no problem getting the front row seat two years ago. 

“You don’t have to see anything you don’t want to see, Robb,” Sansa tells him, standing up, getting a cigarette from her purse. “You can look the other way.” 

_ You’ve done it before.  _

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Do you know what you’re doing?” Rhaenys asks for the tenth time that night. 

Jon sits on the couch of his living area, sighing. 

Once a week, he is graced by his older sister's domineering presence. She made sure he was eating properly, had a green intake besides the olive at the end of a glass, sent his clothes to the cleaners and hands him names of high paying theater people with extraordinary vanity who wished to have portraits of themselves hanging about in their grandiose homes. 

Jon, in turn, reciprocates in this exchange by nodding along to everything Rhaenys drones on about and occasionally chiming in with, “ _ Whatever you say, Rhaenys. _ ” 

“I’m only taking a picture.”

Rhaenys looks at him like he’s stupid. 

To be fair, she gives that look to everyone. 

“Of the King's sister. Of Princess Sansa,” Rhaenys says, folding her arms over her chest. Her eyes are especially intense at the moment. “Not of some lousy sunset with purples and oranges, Jaehaerys.” 

He winces at the sound of his full name. 

“Its just a  _ picture.  _ And she might be the princess but she’s just a woman—”

“No,” His sister sighs. “You can’t be an almighty equalizer with her. It won’t work this time. She’s not the Wilding’s wife or the bleached beauty from Meereen or—”

Jon rubs his temples. “I know very well who Sansa is, Rhaenys.” 

“I don’t think this is a good idea…”

“Really?” Jon laughs humorlessly. “Your attitude up until this moment was giving me no indication…”

“ _ I think it’s a marvelous idea!”  _

Aegon’s loud holler comes from the stairs as he makes his way up to their level. Their brother waltz’s in, winking at his younger brother, an amused look on his face; Aegon is always amused, like there’s some joke he knows that no one else does, but he’s always been that way. 

He plops down on the couch next to Jon. 

“Shut it,” Rhaenys glares. “You don’t even know what—“

“No need,” Aegon interrupts. He gets comfortable on the couch, throwing his legs on Jon. “If it’s got  _ you _ fuming, Rhae, then I say it’s probably grand.” 

Rhaenys scowls. “The both of you drive me  _ mad _ .” 

“What have I even done?” Jon coughs out. 

“Is not what you’ve done, it’s what you’re going to do.” 

Aegon looks at him, curious. “What  _ are _ you going to do?” 

“More like  _ who…”  _ Rhaenys mutters. 

Jon shoots her an annoyed look. Their brother’s face brightens. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this, probably ever...

“Jaehaerys, are you messing with Rhae’s broadway friends again?” Aegon wiggles his brows at him. “You know they’re off limits. Especially after you dumped the last one and she went for the part our sister wanted—”

“Don’t mention that  _ wench  _ Bella.. _.”  _ Rhaenys snaps. 

“Rhaenys is angry because Princess Sansa is going to have her photograph taken,” Jon pauses, taking in the eager eyes of his brother combined with a disapproving ones of his sister. “By me.” 

Aegon screeches. 

“Are you yanking my balls right now?” Aegon laughs, slapping his shoulder. “The  _ princess!”  _

Jon, used to his brother’s ridiculous and nonsensical sayings, only shakes his head in response. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Their sister hisses. “Tell him he has to cancel.”

“What’s so wrong about it, Rhae? It’s a photo…” Aegon rolls his eyes but looks at Jon and winks. “And maybe a little something else if our baby brother is charming enough…”

“Egg,” Jon’s shoulders shake with laughter. 

“Don’t tell me you’re not gonna at least  _ try— _ ” 

“You’re  _ disgusting _ ,” Rhaenys groans. Her scowl deepens as she looks at them again. “She’s the  _ princess _ not one of Chataya’s girls. And besides, she’s probably still in love with that Group Captain of hers…”

Jon would have had to have been living under a rock for the last few years to  _ not  _ hear about the marriage that never was between Group Cpt. Harold Hardyng and Princess Sansa. It was all the rage back then...a princess marrying a commoner, a divorced one at that, twice her age and with two nearly grown children besides. Everyone in Jon’s usual company was for the marriage; they thought it was a sign the dusty monarchy was moving forward. 

But then the princess addressed the public announcing she wouldn’t marry her Group Cpt. and the man was all but exiled from the country...rumors say he’s with another woman now in the Reach, one bearing a striking resemblance to the princess. But that’s all rumors of course. 

“She does,” Jon says suddenly. His siblings look at him with confusion. “Still love him.” 

All signs of a scowl erase from Rhaenys’ face. 

In a rare moment, even Aegon looks less than amused. 

Rhaenys sighs, sitting down next to him. “They’re horrible people, Jaehaerys,” She murmurs. “Those people..they suffocate everyone. Even their own family. We know that more than any of them.” 

Jon thinks of his mother's parents. They’re still all smiles and fancy jewels...they don’t even visit their own daughters grave. Jon can’t even remember if he saw them at her funeral...if they’ve ever left flowers, if they even knew she wasn’t alive anymore—

“I know,” Jon sighs, too. “But it’s just a photo. That’s all.” 

Rhaenys shakes her head. “I know you.” 

“What can I see about her by taking her photograph?”

“I don’t know,” She admits. “But you’ll find out. And then you won’t be able to turn away. Because that’s your way.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. 

“You can’t fix everyone, little brother.” She knows him better than anyone.  _ She’s not your mother. You don’t need to save her, she’s not your responsibility— _ “I know how much you value your honor and all. But she’s not the way to go about it…” 

Jon doesn’t know that for certain. He couldn’t do it back then, as a boy, when he thought it was better to be emotionless and guarded. He wasn’t enough to save his mother from her own destruction.

But Princess Sansa might be his last chance at honor. 

Aegon sees his turmoil. Aegon always sees. His brother might be the image of their father—he might have his voice and his smile but they’re completely different. Aegon  _ cares _ . Their father never  _ could _ . 

Jon glances at him. 

Knowingly, Aegon pats his back, “I think Jon is old enough to know what he can and cannot do, Rhae.” 

Their sister doesn’t say anything. Rhaenys only stares at him for a long while; it’s scary, tragic, how much Jon can look at her and see Elia Martell. The woman who took him in once word got around that the girl her husband impregnated had passed on and left a seven year old boy behind...they have the same look.

The one that tells him,  _ you don’t fool us.  _

Jon hopes he’s not fooling himself, either. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jon sees her car pull up from the top floor window of his studio. She says something to the driver. 

He takes his time making his way down. Once he's in the same room as her, he takes her in. She’s quite the contradiction; the way Sansa dresses is proper, yet, the way she walks and the way her lips are naturally pouted and the hooded blue gaze she throws at him are not in any way under the definition of propriety. 

She walks like she  _ wants _ people to look at her, to know that someone glorious walks among them. Chin lifted upwards and posture straight as a pole. He supposed a lifetime of being told to walk behind someone else and  _ stay there  _ would make a person feel the need to stand out best as they could. 

Now, Sansa stands in front of him. 

“So...where do you want me?” She asks. 

It’s an innocent question. But he smiles weakly, almost painfully, because he won’t tell her what her dreams have made him ache for. That’s his problem. 

“There,” Jon points to a single chair in the center, surrounded by a screen and several camera lights. “And hello to you, too.” 

Sansa gives him a smile, only a tad bit genuine, then she makes her way over to where he pointed. She frowns as she takes a seat and the leather squeaks in protest. It’s a tattered, ancient chair and she notices right away. She situated herself nevertheless and faced him. 

There was no way Jon could simply take a photo of her right then and there. It would go against everything he liked about photoshoots. He needed to see real emotion. Annoyance. Anger. Impatience. Anything. Not the poised and proper portrait of someone who’s been told their whole life how they  _ should _ look in front of strangers. 

Jon begins fixing the lights. He turns one on that focuses on the floor, the light will ricochet from the white mat and illuminate her from below. 

Still, Sansa stares at him. No emotion. 

He sighs. 

This would be a challenge. Luckily, Jon knows challenges. His entire youth was an uphill battle. He had to handle an eccentric mother who’d fallen from societal grace and figured she’d be better off without it. He weathered her relationships, her blubbering tears, her sharp laughter after too much ale…

Jon handled the shadow of two older siblings who were more extraordinary than he could ever imagine being. Aegon, with his talent for captivating a crowd with just his voice and Rhaenys, who had been raised like the rest of them to be someone they’re truly not, mastered a way to make her self preservation an art people pay to see. 

“Right,” Jon tells her. “Wait right here.” He turns off the main light and goes back upstairs. 

Jon whistles as he enters his living area. 

He lights himself a cigarette and figures she’s probably not seated anymore. He waits, skimming through the newspaper until his cigarette is half smoked before getting up and reaching for a hammer nearby his workstation—his inventions are nowhere near complete, so he doesn’t think twice before banging the hammer loudly on a plank of wood, the loud racketeering flooding the once quiet atmosphere. 

He smiles to himself. 

If she isn’t thoroughly annoyed by now, Jon thinks that maybe he shouldn't push as much as he hoped he could then…

Going back downstairs, he sees Sansa seated, crossing her legs as she, too, finishes a cigarette she had in between her fingers. She looks exceedingly annoyed.  _ Impatient _ . Girls like her weren’t used to being the ones waiting for someone else. 

It seems like Jon was getting somewhere with her after all. 

Jon takes off his shoes, letting them plop on the floor. He grabs the argus camera that rested on the tall tripod. 

Sansa spins the chair to face him. 

She is uncomfortable, he can tell, because she smiles. 

“Don’t smile like that,” Jon tells her. She raises a brow. He winds the camera. “You don’t have to smile for me.” 

“Then—?” 

“No, It’s lovely but … don’t.” 

“Ah, I see,” Sansa muses. “You’d prefer me to be  _ unlovely _ .” 

“I’d prefer you to be yourself,” Jon says as he looks down at his camera and adjusts it to fit the dim lighting. “But I’m beginning to realize that’s going to be impossible.” 

A brief sign of thrill floods the icy blues in her eyes. 

“Why? Because I’m too much. Too uncooperative,” Sansa says knowingly, like she’s reading off a report. “Too mysterious—”

“Because you haven't the faintest idea who you are.”

In that moment, Sansa fumes, “I know perfectly well—”

“No,” Jon’s eyes bore into hers. “Not a clue.” 

He takes a picture. 

Sansa stares back at him. There’s a crack in the ice wall that she’s put up for herself. High as the Wall and just as impenetrable. The look she gives him is half fury and half shock. It makes him filled with fury, too. 

_ Does anyone pay attention to her? Do they even see her at all?  _

“Look to the window,” Jon instructs. She does so, after another brief moment of glaring at him. The camera clicks after he takes a photo. “We don’t know who you are, either. The rest is outside the palace gates, we’re clueless beyond the jewels and the angel eyes…” 

Sansa turns back to him. 

“You see what we want you to,” She says, her voice husky and a few octaves lower. “We’ve fed everyone the fairytale...until the taste can become familiar.”

She reaches down to her purse. She quickly pulls out a folded up photograph, handing it to him. Jon opens it up and smiles down fondly. Sansa, the princess. Sansa, the second one. That’s who Jon sees within the photo. It certainly is a well oiled fallacy. He’s certain if he stares at it for too long, some fairy dust might fall from the photo…

“Gods,” Jon breathes out. He drops the photo. “I’m sorry but..Lord Manderly's photographer is a disgrace.” 

Sansa only leans back in her chair, shrugging. 

“Cecil’s been good to the family…”

Jon places the camera back on the tripod, inching it closer to his subject. Sansa sits up straighter, awaiting his direction. He smiles to himself before he winds the camera back up again. 

“Why would you care about the family?” Jon asks.

The thing is, Jon wasn’t raised to see all those related to him as family. Rhaenys...Aegon...they all learned to love one another. They were bastards, they weren’t made to love on a whim. His mother’s disownment was evidence of just how good a family can be to someone... _ family _ kicked out a pregnant sixteen year old girl and never opened their doors for her again. 

Jon adds, “Have they been good to you?” 

Sansa looks down at her hands. 

“They’re my family.” 

The camera shutters again. 

“But that business with Harold Hardyng,” Jon speaks lowly, as if he’s speaking to a frightened horse. He watches her features bloom with a plethora of emotions...he can see the grief. The bitterness and the longing. It makes his throat tighten. He clears it, saying, “ _ Cruel _ ,” 

“Pragmatic…” She corrects.

“You don’t think that,” He shakes his heads. He adjusts the lighting, winding the film up again. “Tell me...was he really as dreary as he sounded?” 

Another emotion he hadn’t seen clouds her eyes.

_ Anger.  _

The camera clicks. Another photo. 

Sansa composed herself. “No, he wasn’t.” She admits, her voice barely above a whisper as she does. “He was decent and old-fashioned...easy qualities to  _ mock _ .” She says pointedly. Softer she adds, “Easy to miss, too.”

Jon waits a moment.

He pushes the tripod closer. He walks around behind her, murmuring,  _ easy,  _ before he gently pulls down the sleeves of her dress; making the neckline plunge and exposing the porcelain skin of her graceful neck. The dress is around her shoulders now but from the angle where he situated his camera...you wouldn’t be able to tell she is wearing anything at all. 

His fingertips brush against the skin of her shoulders; she’s soft, so very soft. Jon feels her lean into his touch, shivering, before walking back over to his camera. 

He squints into the view, looking up at the way she seems to be holding back what she wants to say. 

“Do you miss him?” 

Sansa turns up to look at the camera. 

For the first time, there is nothing icy about those blue eyes of hers. It’s like a melted pond in the springtime...with the light glaring down the color is the shade of two lapis lazuli stones. Jon can see a year and some worth for grief overwhelming her. Jon can see all the composure she had been keeping for the past thirty minutes fade away like a candle being blown out. 

Most of all, Jon can see the truth. 

In a whisper, Sansa says, “Sometimes.” 

The camera clicks. 

“ _ There _ .” Jon takes the camera and puts it back on its resting place. He looks up and sees her wiping her eyes. “A drink sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?” 

“V-Very,” Sansa breathes out. 

“Back to my place it is then.” 

“And where is that?”

“Well get dressed and I’ll show you, Red,” He offers a weak smile, going up the stairs. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Sansa takes a moment to gather herself. 

She quickly realizes how Jon Snow gets those one in a million shots. He  _ does _ intrude. He told her as much when they first met; he had spoken loud and clear and it was  _ Sansa _ who had expected something else. She figured he was some flatterer, someone who had to use pretentiousness to make up for the lack of status. 

She  _ planned _ to be flattered, not analyzing, not stripped down to show the most basic components of her being. 

He asked about Harry. About her family. He called them cruel. Sansa has thought of much worse words for them in the last year than just  _ cruel _ . But it was surreal, hearing it from someone who wasn’t Theon or Jeyne or someone she complained to. Someone else noticed. No one has  _ ever _ noticed. 

Jon Snow did…Jon and his intrusiveness. Jon who’s too damnably cool, he can’t be bothered to look into his camera whilst taking a picture. 

Jon who chooses to focus on his subject. And notice it all. 

Sansa pulls up the sleeves of her dress. Before she did, she looked in the mirror and saw how much lovelier she looked with her shoulders exposed. A few dresses and blouses made like that wouldn’t hurt…

Once she’s on the second floor, she quickly realizes that  _ his place  _ was right here. It was spacious at least. She saw a stove and other things that resembled a kitchen area. There was a couch off to the side with a coffee table in front of it; photographs and empty coffee cups were littered around. 

There was a Yi Ti style bed that laid on the floor close to the windows. Near that was some sort of bar area; most of the bottles looked nearly untouched though. 

“The bathroom is over there,” says Jon. He’s near the bar island but looks back at her. “If you wanna finish your assessment…”

Sansa shakes her head, “No need. I’m done.”

“The verdict?”

“It’s cute.”  _ Humble.  _

“It’s a mess,” Jon laughs. “But it’s home,  _ my _ mess, so, in the spirit of ownership and laziness let's raise a glass. By the way, Arbor Gold or—”

“Arbor Gold,” She cut in. “Always the Gold.”

Jon nods. She takes the glass he offers. 

Sansa goes over to the desk area, near where a bunch of blank canvases and wooden planks look to be situated messily. Like a makeshift workshop; she smiles at something that looks like a swing...she sees a thick rope and looks up to see some steel hooks protruding out of the ceiling. It looks like something out of a Cabaret film... 

“Is that a—swing?”

Jon follows her eyes. He laughs out loud. 

“Not for the reasons you think,” He drawls, his dark eyes meeting hers. Cheekily, he adds, “I mean, it  _ could _ be, I’m not  _ not  _ inclined to try from on it—”

“So what is it for then?” Sansa’s cheeks feel warm. 

“A swing,” He confirms. She glares. “For  _ photography _ . I figured I can have my clients there and take a photo mid-swing or even just for a plain shot.” 

“And you made it yourself?” 

Almost shyly—in stark contrast to someone propositioning her moments ago—Jon nods. 

“Hmm.” Sansa muses, because it’s probably better than something she’s seen come from a factory. “Well, it looks like it won’t kill anyone.” 

“Really?” Jon grins. He nods to himself, looking a bit proud and pink in the cheeks. It looks so young at the moment, like a boy showing his parents a coloring he finished. “That was the end goal.” 

Sansa moves a few steps over to the desk, where some photographs are left scattered. She picks one up of a platinum haired woman; she’s…iridescent. Sansa doesn’t know any other word that can describe her. Her features are light, her eyes, her hair...like if moonlight and sunlight wove itself together. 

“Who’s this?” 

Jon perks up, looking at the photo. He almost winces. 

“A friend.” 

Sansa’s brows raise. “What kind of friend?” 

“An old one,” Jon deflects. “But she's dear to me.” 

Sansa simply picks up another photo. The subject of the photo is much younger, a girl, and it’s so obviously a portrait. She looks terribly sullen but the impeccable way she’s dressed tells Sansa that she’s more than likely a society girl. 

“And this one? Couldn’t you have cheered her up a bit,” She giggles a bit. “Maybe shaken a rattle at her? Give her a bunny to set on her lap…”

“That's Myrcella Baratheon,” Jon tells her. 

“Ahh,” Sansa recognizes her now. “Lord Robert’s daughter.” 

“Or is she?” Jon takes a drink of his wine. “Word is not. Apparently she’s actually her mother and uncle’s lovechild…” Sansa’s eyes widened at that. 

“No,” She gasps. 

Jon nods though, “Thirty years the affair has been going on, right under the Prime Minister’s nose, in his  _ home _ . His own children. Can you imagine?” 

Sansa looks at the photo of Myrcella a bit longer. Poor child. There would be no need for smiling in a family like that. Not when you had Lady Cersei as your mother and your jittery war hero uncle as parents. 

Thinking of her family, she knows they’re not ideal. They care more about appearances and upholding the family pedestal rather than caring about how each member is really doing. But, at the very least, they’re not Lannister’s and for that, Sansa did love them more than she would admit these days. 

But still, the resentment is always there.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be married,” Sansa murmurs. 

Jon turns to her. She can feel him stare at the side of her face but she doesn’t look up from the photo of sad, little Myrcella Baratheon.  _ Is this what he saw when he took my photo? Is this what he wanted to see? So he can decide if I’m worth it, if I’m ever going to more than sad, little Princess Sansa…. _ ?

“I think you will,” He says. 

She looks up at him. 

His eyes are sincere. Hesitantly, he looks at his hands before nodding to himself, “You will.” 

“Why?” Sansa asks. 

“Because it’s your way,” He says firmly. His voice is rough and low, like he doesn’t want anyone but her to hear what he has to say. “You’re one of those who deserves a life partner. Someone who won’t...let anyone make do anything you don’t wish to do, ever again. Someone worthy.” 

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. 

When she was younger, she used to  _ beg _ her father to let her marry another prince from a faraway kingdom or a lord’s handsome heir, even if it meant she’d have to leave...but her father would say he’d make her a match when the time was right. When he found someone, “ _ Worthy of her. Someone Brave, gentle, and strong…” _

_ How worthy are you, Jon Snow?  _

“Come on,” Jon breaks the spell. “Let me show you something.” 

He walks over to a giant mirror with intricate corners that’s laid against the wall. Looking closer, Sansa can see names scratched into the glass. They weren’t  _ names _ more so than they were obviously aliases. She saw ones like  _ SNITCH  _ and  _ HONEY  _ and  _ JESTER _ . 

“Who’s  _ Biter? _ ” asks Sansa. 

Jon grins. “I think that’s Mya Stone.” 

“So these are people who’ve signed their names?” 

“Nicknames,” He amends. “But yes.” 

“Who’s  _ Froggy?”  _

“Meera Reed.” 

“Look,” Sansa points. “You’ve already got a  _ princess _ .” 

Jon chuckles. “That’s my brother…” She cracks a smile at the sound. “Will you sign? I keep a diamond on the top right there for the purpose.” 

Sansa hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a nickname.” 

“Red is too obvious,” Jon agrees. “It has to be something that’ll throw them off our scent.” He looks to be thinking of one for a moment. He snaps his fingers. “Beryl.” 

“Beryl?” Sansa echoes. 

There was no connection to Beryl and Sansa, certainly. 

Jon grabs the diamond, handing it to her. 

As Sansa leans in to write it, he says, “Rhymes with peril.” 

Sansa stops momentarily. It was all the confirmation she needed to know. He had seen the truth. But he didn’t seem too different. Only more comfortable. She continues to press the diamond into the glass, writing the nickname. 

BERYL. 

“Now...let’s go see your photo.” 

* * *

  
  
  


Sansa stepped into the dark room where Jon said he developed most of his photos. 

The red light made the room all the more eerie but she walked in behind him nevertheless. Several were hung up by what looked to mimic a clothesline of some sort. She follows Jon who stands in front of the trays that hold all the chemicals for developing the photo. 

Curiously, Sansa asks, “I’m not the first woman to be brought here, am I?” 

Jon furrows his brows, “No,” He admits. “My sister helps me develop photos when I have too many—”

“I mean  _ besides _ your sister.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“This whole thing is too practiced, too well-oiled.” Sansa leans against the table as she stares at him. “Countless women have been here before me.”

Jon glances at her.

Smiling, he asks, “Does that thought bother you?” 

Sansa huffs, “Not in the way you want it to.” She says pointedly. He laughs a little. “I just want to be clear that your little routine won’t end the way it usually does...” 

Jon feigns a pout, “Pity. I kinda hoped you liked ice cream...” 

She rolls her eyes at him, but she smiles.

“So first,” Jon changes the subject. “We take the photo…”He grabs it, going right behind her and reaching to put the paper on the tray, facedown. Her back is closely pressed against his chest. “And the chemicals.” He grabs her hands and helps her grab some plastic tongs and gestures her to move it around the liquid. “Just like so…”

She can feel his breath on her neck. 

“I do like ice cream.” Sansa says. 

She can’t see him from behind her, but she knows he’s smiling. 

“Then we put it in water,” He instructs. 

Sansa carefully lifts the photo and transfers it to the water over in the next spot. 

“There have been others,” She speaks again. “Am I right?” 

“Why do you want to know?” 

She doesn’t know herself. But the thought of all of this being a game...she couldn’t bear it. 

Sansa turns, so she’s practically nose to nose with him. 

“I don’t like being made a fool.”

She can feel his breath fan her face when he exhales. It smells like cigarettes and wine. But he doesn’t close the gap between them, not like she secretly, desperately wishes he would. 

“I would never fool you, Sansa.” 

It might be the first time she heard her name from his mouth. Something about the way his accent curled around both syllables, the huskiness of his voice from this close was just too much and did too many things to her already weak heart that she turned away from him again. 

She focuses back on the photo.

“Then we put it in the mixer,” Jon speaks again. He does it this time. 

“I want to believe you.” Sansa tells him. 

He stills behind her. 

“I do believe you,” She admits. “I don’t know why…”

“I’ve given you no reason to distrust me.” 

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. “You’ve given me a thousand. And you know it.” 

“How even a number...” Jon hums. He lifts the photo off the mixer. He lets it drip for a moment before grabbing a clothespin and hanging it on the line above them. “Then we hang her up.” 

Sansa watches Jon catch the droplets on his fingertips. 

“So,” He grabs her attention. “What do you think?” He waits a moment before adding, “It’s a Sansa I’ve never seen before…” 

In the photo, Sansa can hardly recognize herself. 

It’s taunting. A ghost of the young girl she used to be. The woman in the photo is no girl though, and she doesn’t look young either; there’s a maturity to it that screams elegance, poise, the kind you get from a weathered soul rather than how far your surname goes back or what horses you breed. It’s a person Sansa wished with all her heart that she can see in the mirror—not just caught on the click of a camera quicker than a moment. 

Sansa sighs, “No ones ever seen before…” 

“I think I know why.” 

She looks at him in inquiry. 

“Because there,” He says. “You’re not  _ just _ a princess.” 

He’s right. Nothing about that photo says princess. If anything, it’s a girl with the likeness of a princess. If someone looked at this photo they might see the resemblance...but somehow they’d know that girl is so far from what she used to be. 

“There's someone I'd like you to send it to.”

She sees Jon grin. “What kind of someone?”

“ _ Someone _ ,” She reiterates. “I’ll give you the address. Then I’m afraid I must go...I’ll have to cut this routine of yours to a disappointingly short.” 

“I’m not disappointed,” He confesses. 

“Hmm,” Sansa only hums. She writes down the address of where she needs the photo to go. There’s a thrill running down her spine as she hands it to Jon. 

He reads it. If he knows the place, he doesn’t say a word. 

“By the way, did a car bring you?” Jon asks. 

“Yes, it’s waiting outside.” 

“Good,” Jon says. He walks over and turns on the lights. He slips on a leather jacket, yanking up a screen door that she hadn’t noticed before. A shiny black motorcycle sits in the spot. “Then he can follow us.” 

If Sansa had heard from someone a year ago that she’d be on the back of a motorcycle with a mysterious photographer, evading her royal driver, she would’ve put out a cigarette on their hand for being ridiculous. But there was nothing ridiculous about the way she felt now; maybe delirious, but it was all from happiness. The wind was fresh and made her more awake than she had been in months. The smell of leather and cigarettes coming from Jon’s jacket as she rested her cheek on his back as she held him close was a comfort she never would’ve imagined finding. 

She giggles to herself when Jon manages to cut off some cars and lose the driver for good this time. He drives over Bael’s Bridge and she looks up at the sky and realizes  _ this  _ is how life is supposed to feel every day. 

The guards immediately stop Jon at the gate from entering Torrhen House—they look bewildered when Sansa removes her helmet, her red hair spilling out and smiling at them. 

They let them go ahead, their eyes still wide. 

Jon revs his motorcycle, the dust behind them. 

Pulling up in front of Sansa’s house, she carefully gets off. “You’re disappointed.” She whispers low in his ear as she does so. She sees his grin and hands him his helmet. 

“Keep it,” He tells her, with the promise of seeing each other again in both of their minds. “You’ll need it when we go out this weekend.” 

Sansa only beams. 

She turns to walk in her house. He calls out her name. 

Looking boyish again, Jon says, “Just a  _ tad _ disappointed.” 

He doesn’t wait to see her reaction, the playful glare of her warm blue eyes is enough. He revs his motorcycle as loudly as he can, looking up at the windows to see the lights clicking on. Sansa waves him away, turning to rush inside. 

Her cheeks hurt from smiling. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Beth Cassel doesn’t hear Ella Fitzgerald blare out that night. 

What she  _ does _ hear is the lively chatter of the Princess Royal speaking to her lady about, “The most  _ interesting man alive—” _ along with several laughs that she hasn’t heard in a long while, since King Eddard’s time. She leans on the door to hear it again, just to make sure it’s real. 

Sansa’s laugh spreads into the air like tiny bells and their harmonies. 

It’s a sound that Beth Cassel missed. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Days later, Sansa receives a letter. 

The location is the Vale. From Harry Hardyng. Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever opened a letter quicker in her life. The first words make her heart race. 

  
  
  


_ Dearest Sansa,  _

_ I write to you with a heavy heart…I have just returned from a year abroad around the world. A young woman named Myranda Royce accompanied me on this trip as my secretary and photographer. She is someone I’ve known for a few years now & her companionship has become one of the few joys in my life...the memory of us among them. I have decided to ask her to marry me.  _

Sansa freezes. 

Every inch of her is cold. 

_ My Dearest, Sansa, I know you will feel betrayed. But these years apart, and the knowledge that I will never be allowed to marry you … _

A teardrop falls on the paper, smudging the ink. 

_ Or even...in time...I hope…someone worthy of you— _

Sansa throws off everything on her desk. The glass of the flower vase and porcelain pen holders shatter, the ink spills on the floor like blood...the final action of a dead person. 

The smell of the tossed flowers is sickening. She can see her reflection in the mirror from where she sits. It's twisted, mocking, horrid sight. 

The worst part….Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever looked more in peril than she does now. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
